Nocturnal by Chelsea M. Cameron

does.
    “Sure, baby.” She pulls me in for a hug and I hold on tight. This is the third time she's hugged me today. Is that what I'm going to do now? Count the number of hugs I have left?
    After dropping her keys and purse by the door, she gives me a tired smile and says she's going to rest. Dad's still at work, and the house is quiet. I haul all the things she's bought me up to my room where I have to cram them in corners in my closet. If she's going to be doing this a lot, I'm going to need a bigger bedroom.
    I go downstairs and knock on her door. She's out like a light, breathing softly.
    My feet don't make a sound on the carpet as I walk into the room. Soft peach light greets me; it's her favorite color. The curtains move as a soft breeze breathes into the room, making it the perfect lazy afternoon. I walk around the bed and look at her face. It's relaxed, peaceful. She mutters a little. I take one finger and run it over her head. I twist one of the brown wisps that passes for her hair around my finger. She moves a little and I let go.
    Her eyes open and she starts, seeing me standing next to her.
    “Is something wrong?” Her eyes are wide with alarm. Mother's instinct, to assume the worst.
    “No. I just came in to check on you.”
    “You don't have to do that. I'm fine.” She yawns.
    “I know.”
    The words that I need to say hang between us, invisible as a spider's web until you walk into it.
    “I love you, my Ava-Claire.” Her arms reach for me as she props herself up her elbows.
    “I know. I love you too.” I sit down on the edge of her bed.
    “You're going to be okay. You're my strong one. My miracle.” Doctors told her she couldn't get pregnant, but she did. And then she almost lost me a few months in. But I'd survived.
    Without Dad to monitor us, we finally venture into the minefield. I think about changing the subject, but don't. 
    “I don't think I can do it,” I say, my voice trembling. The tears I've been trying so hard to keep deep down in my reservoir bubble up my throat.
    “You can. We're never given more than we can carry.” I take her hand. I can't look at her.
    “It isn't fair.” My voice hurts.
    “I know, baby.” She sits up and pulls me toward her. “I know.” Her soft words release something in me and I can feel the tears release. In this soft peach room with her arms around me, it's nearly impossible to push them back. But I have to.
    “You and Dad will take care of each other.” I don't say anything and I don't let go. “Nothing in this life is ever truly lost.” It's a quote from a poem or something. They'd always irritated me, those little proverbs and bits of wisdom. Now I want to collect them, to write them down so I have them with me when she goes. My mother is going to die.
    “I would never leave you. If I had the choice. I want you to know that.”
    “I do.” She pulls back and looks at my face. There are tears in her eyes, but they haven't spilled over yet.
    “I tried. It just wasn't enough.”
    “I know.” I feel like I'm saying the same things over and over. I hope they matter. 
    She changes the subject.
    “What are you doing this weekend? Anything?” There's always some sort of party, if I wanted to go. Which I don't, unless Tex is going to drag me.
    “I don't know. Probably nothing.”
    “I don't want you not doing things because of me. You're a teenager and I want you to act like it.”
    I open my mouth to protest, but she puts her hand over it.
    “Go out. Have fun. Bring back good stories. Meet a cute guy. Dance. I want you to have a good time.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. If I didn't know better, I'd say my mother was trying to get me laid.
    “Okay.” She pulls me in for hug number four.
    Tex is finally un-grounded, so it's her first chance to get out and go to a party. I'm glad she waits until lunch to accost me, even though everyone is talking about it the minute I walk into school, but I hadn't bothered to eavesdrop on the details. I