They Threw Me Out the Night I Was Dying

Grace's POV

The kitchen smelled toast. My hands moved on autopilot. Six a.m. Sunday mornings always started the same way, me in the kitchen, everyone else still asleep. Well, almost everyone.

"Morning, Grace." Emily shuffled in, her blonde hair a messy cloud around her face. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed, which she definitely had.

"Morning." I set a fresh plate of eggs in front of her. "Orange juice?"

"Mm-hmm." She yawned, reaching for her phone.

I poured her juice, made her toast, buttered it the way she liked. When was the last time someone made breakfast for me? The thought came and went like it always did.

Emily's hand knocked against her glass. Milk splashed across the table.

"Oh no—" She jumped up, but Mom was already there.

"It's okay, sweetie." Mom grabbed a towel, her voice so soft and gentle. "Don't worry about it. You're tired from studying, aren't you? Here, sit down. Grace will clean it up."

Of course I will. I grabbed the paper towels. My hands moved automatically, wiping up the mess while Mom fussed over Emily, checking if any milk got on her pajamas, asking if she needed fresh ones.

"You work too hard on those papers," Mom said, smoothing Emily's hair. "I worry about you, honey. Your body's been delicate since you were born."

I know. I've heard this my whole life. Every single time Emily so much as sneezes, it's a family emergency. Meanwhile, I could probably collapse on the floor and they'd step over me to get to her.

"I'm fine, Mom." Emily shot me an apologetic look. The kind that said sorry without really meaning it, or maybe she meant it but not enough to actually say something. I didn't know anymore.

I kept wiping the table. The memory came rushing back before I could stop it, me at eight years old, same kitchen, same accident. But when I knocked over my milk, Dad made me kneel on the cold floor for an hour with my hands folded, praying for forgiveness. "God punishes the careless," he'd said. "You need to learn." My knees hurt for days after that.

"Grace?" Mom's voice cut through the memory. "Are you listening?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said make sure you clean under the table too."

"Right." I got on my hands and knees, reaching under the table. Because sticky floors matter more than I do. That's not bitter. That's just true.

Emily ate her eggs. Mom praised how well she was keeping up with her coursework. Dad came down and kissed Emily's forehead, asked about her biology exam. Nobody asked me anything. Nobody even looked at me except to make sure I was cleaning properly.

I finished and headed upstairs to change into my work clothes. In the mirror, my reflection looked exhausted, dark circles under my eyes, skin so pale I looked half-dead already. When did I start looking like this?

The lunch rush at Maggie's Diner was insane today.

"Order up! Table six!"

"Coming!" I grabbed two plates, and wove through the crowded tables. There were families everywhere, couples holding hands, groups of teenagers laughing over milkshakes. They all look so happy. I wondered what that felt like.

My arms ached. I'd been working for six hours straight, and the shift wasn't even halfway done. I set the plates down, smiled at the customers like I was supposed to, and hurried back for the next order.

"Grace!" Old Mr. Peterson waved me over to his booth. He came in every Sunday after church, always ordered the same thing, coffee, black, and a slice of apple pie.

"Hey, Mr. Peterson. The usual?"

"You know it." He studied me over his reading glasses. "You look exhausted, kiddo. They working you too hard?"

"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Just busy."

"Hmm." He didn't look convinced. "You know, my granddaughter's about your age. She's at the state university now. Pre-med. You ever think about going to college?"

The question hurt more than it should have. Every single day. Every morning when I watch Emily complain about her classes. Every night when I count my pathetic savings account balance.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm saving up." I glanced toward the kitchen. "Gonna do it on my own."

"On your own?" His eyebrows raised. "What about your folks? I see your father at church every week. Seems like a—"

"I should get your pie." I cut him off, smiling apologetically. "Be right back."

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, breathing hard.

"Grace, you okay?" Linda, the other waitress, touched my shoulder.

"Fine. Just—" The pain started.

It began deep in my abdomen, this sharp twisting sensation that made me grip the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. I'd had stomach aches before, but this was different. This felt like something inside me was trying to claw its way out.

"Hey—" Linda moved closer. "You don't look fine."

"I'm okay." I straightened up, even though everything in my body was screaming at me to curl into a ball. "Just need a minute."

But I didn't have a minute. Mr. Peterson was waiting. I grabbed Mr. Peterson's pie and pushed through the kitchen door. You can do this. You've been doing this for months.

The pain came in waves, sometimes dull enough to ignore, sometimes so sharp I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. I kept moving anyway. What else was I supposed to do?

By three o'clock, my hands were shaking.

"Table nine needs—Grace?" The manager's voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

I was at the sink, washing dishes because the dishwasher called in sick. Steam rose around me. The hot water should have felt good, but I couldn't feel anything except the pain spreading through my stomach like fire.

It got worse. So much worse that I couldn't breathe properly.

My vision blurred. The plate in my hands tilted, then slipped through my fingers. I heard it shatter across the tile floor. I tried to grab the counter, but my legs just gave out completely. The ground rushed up to meet me.

"Grace!" Someone screamed. Footsteps thundered toward me. "Call 911!"