I nod and turn back to the doctor.

“It looks like your mom has an ulcer in her stomach and is severely iron deficient. Has she mentioned anything about feeling tired lately? Any mention of bloody stools or vomiting blood?”

I shake my head. “What? No. I mean, I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything about that. And she hasn’t been acting differently either. She’s been keeping herself busy and active like normal.”

Dr. Alma offers a head nod that reads sympathetic. “She doesn’t seem like the type who cares to slow down.”

“Definitely not.”

“Unfortunately, she’s lost a lot of blood due to her ulcer, so we’re going to give her a blood transfusion to replenish what she’s lost.”

The thoughts spinning through my brain halt like a needle on a record. “Blood transfusion? But . . .”

Dr. Alma purses her lips. “I know that sounds serious, but it’s pretty routine in a situation like this. Her ulcer is causing considerable blood loss. But once the transfusion is complete, she’ll feel a lot better. It’s also likely that she’s anemic, so we’ll put her on an iron supplement as well. But don’t worry, it won’t interfere with her diabetes medication at all.”

The needle flies off the record completely, shattering against the inside of my skull. “Diabetes . . . What? My mom doesn’t have diabetes.”

Dr. Alma frowns. “Ms. DiMarco, your mother is a type 2 diabetic. Didn’t you know that?”

I shake my head and hold the nearby wall to steady myself.

She blinks before reining in her expression. “I think you two have a lot to catch up on.”

She says she’ll be back to check on her later in the evening. I walk back into the room, confusion hanging over me like a damp fog as I focus my eyes back on Mom.

The door squeaks shut behind me, jolting her awake. She squints at me, then pushes herself up onto the pillows. “Anak. Hi.”

I stand at the head of her bed, balling my hands into loose fists. Sadness has flipped to frustration. How could my own mother keep her health problems a secret from me?

Her brow furrows when she focuses on my face. “What’s wrong?”

I shove a fist through my hair and tug. The split second of pain does nothing to dispel the frustration mowing over my insides. I wring both hands at my sides before folding them across my chest. I can’t get angry, though, not when my mom is lying in a hospital bed.

“Were you ever planning to tell me about your diabetes diagnosis?” It’s a struggle to keep my tone calm, but I manage.

“Eventually.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal she’s been hiding a major medical issue from her own daughter.