“Annalisa’s fine. She had a minor concussion, but she’s okay.” She leans back and exhaustion seeps into my bones.

“I’m—” Mom’s lips are quivering again. “I’m so sorry, Thea. I haven’t handled any of this the way I should’ve. I’ve been terrible, and I thought I was doing the right thing and protecting us, but I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me, like you had to do everything alone, like you couldn’t come to me when Tony called you. Things”—she sniffles back her tears—“things could’ve been different. They should’ve been different.”

Despite being tired, her words hit me right in the stomach. I try to form my own words but I’m too overwhelmed by what she’s saying to properly process anything.

“I’m sorry we’ve been fighting so much,” she continues when words fail me. “I’m going to do better, okay? We’re going to work on our relationship. I quit my job, too, so I’ll be around more.”

All I can do is stare at her with wide eyes. It took a near-death experience to finally get my mom back, but I’m not even mad about it. I’m just happy she’s trying, that we’re trying. That maybe, after all this time, I’m going to have a healthy relationship with my mom because we’ll both put in the effort. She hasn’t made the best decisions in my opinion, but I haven’t made life easy for her either. But together, we can fix our relationship, and I’d really like that. I’d like that more than I ever thought possible, more than I thought I’d ever care.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers as my eyes close. “Get some rest, we can talk in the morning.”

As my eyes shut of their own accord and calmness takes over me, Mom’s sob of “I’m so sorry,” is the last thing I hear before I welcome sleep.

When I wake up again, the sun is shining through the open window, and Mom’s beside me, sipping from a coffee mug. I feel much better than I did last night.

“Hi, honey.” My mom greets me, setting her mug down. “The doctor wants to see you. I’m going to call him.”

She leaves the room as I orient myself again. There are flowers on every surface, and a few stuffed animals. Mom returns with a doctor who has kind eyes and a warm smile.

The doctor says something to me, and I only mostly listen to what she’s saying. Something about antibiotics and stitches and aftercare, but I’m only half listening. Mom’s paying enough attention for the both of us. Nodding attentively, asking questions, and taking notes, though I’m sure this isn’t the first time she’s been told about my aftercare instructions. Mom’s here now, really here, and I trust her to listen to the important stuff, to take care of me, to remember what to do, because as I sit here and watch the doctor’s lips move, all I can think about is Tony.