The Price of Hope

Alessia

I woke up to the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint ticking of the wall clock. The room was bathed in a weak, gray light as the sun struggled to rise. Stretching, I turned to check on Mom in her bed.

“Mom?” I called softly.

She didn’t stir.

A chill ran down my spine, and I sat up, leaning closer to her. “Mom,” I repeated, louder this time, shaking her shoulder gently.

Still no response.

“Mom!” I cried, my voice trembling. I shook her harder, but her body remained still. Panic clawed at my chest as I felt for a pulse. It was there, but faint, and her breathing was shallow.

I grabbed my phone with shaking hands and dialed emergency services. The operator’s calm voice did little to soothe me as I explained what was happening.

“She’s not waking up,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Please, send someone quickly!”

“They’re on their way, signorina,” the operator assured me. “Stay with her and keep her comfortable.”

I hung up and crouched by Mom’s bedside, holding her hand tightly. “Please, Mom. Please wake up,” I whispered, my tears soaking into the blanket.

The ambulance arrived in what felt like hours but was only minutes. Two paramedics rushed into the house, their presence a mix of urgency and calm.

“Step back, miss,” one of them said gently.

I hovered nearby, my hands twisting nervously as they checked her vitals and loaded her onto a stretcher.

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“She’s stable for now,” the other paramedic said. “We need to get her to the hospital for further evaluation.”

I followed them outside, my heart pounding as they loaded her into the ambulance. They offered me a ride, and I climbed in, clutching her hand as the vehicle sped through the dark streets of Palermo.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses swarmed around Mom as they wheeled her into a room. I was left standing in the sterile hallway, feeling helpless and numb.

A nurse guided me to a waiting area, where I sank into a chair. The minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last.

Eventually, a doctor approached me, his face kind but serious.

“Miss Alessia?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, standing up quickly. “How is she?”

“She’s stable,” he said, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “But we need to talk about her condition.”

I nodded, my stomach twisting into knots as he gestured for me to follow him.

In his office, the doctor closed the door and motioned for me to sit.

“Your mother’s condition is worsening,” he began, his tone grave but compassionate. “The cancer has spread beyond her initial diagnosis.”

The words hit me like a blow, and I gripped the edge of the chair. “What does that mean?”

“It means she needs to start chemotherapy as soon as possible,” he explained. “It’s the best course of action to slow the spread and manage her symptoms.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “How much will it cost?”

He sighed and opened a file on his desk. “For the treatments she’ll need, the total cost will be approximately 1,800 euros per session. And she’ll need several sessions over the next few months.”

I felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. That kind of money was impossible. My job barely covered our rent and groceries.

“Isn’t there any way to lower the cost?” I asked desperately.

“There are some financial aid programs,” he said, “but they require applications and approvals, which can take time. Time that your mother doesn’t have.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do everything we can to support her, Miss Alessia. She’s strong, and she has you. That’s a lot.”

I nodded again, unable to speak, and left the office, my mind racing.

When I returned to Mom’s room, she was awake, her face pale but her eyes warm when she saw me.

“Don’t cry, cara mia,” she said softly, her voice still weak.

I sat down beside her and took her hand. “I’m not crying,” I lied, wiping my face quickly. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t apologize,” I said firmly. “You just need to focus on getting better. The doctor said we’re starting treatment soon.”

She smiled faintly. “Treatment costs money, Alessia. We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said, forcing confidence into my voice. “I’ll figure something out.”

Mom looked at me, her eyes filled with love and sadness. “You’ve done enough, my sweet girl. I don’t want you to sacrifice your life for me.”

I shook my head. “You’re my life, Mom. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Her eyes closed, and her breathing evened out as she drifted back to sleep. I sat by her side, clutching her hand, determined to find a way out of this nightmare.

No matter the cost.

I woke up to some dull morning light sneaking through the cracked blinds. Shadows were stretched out across the wall, and my head was pounding from another sleepless night thinking about my mom’s health. Her chemotherapy felt like this huge financial wall. The number 1,800 euros just kept running through my mind, reminding me how far away it was.

I made seven euros an hour, working five hours a night, six days a week. My monthly paycheck barely covered rent, groceries, and Mom’s meds. My throat tightened as I jotted down numbers in my notebook. Even if I doubled my hours—which Marcello would never go for—I’d still come up short.

I couldn't let Mom see me like this. She needed me to be strong. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and headed out to do something I really dreaded—asking the bank for a loan.

The bank felt cold and unfriendly. The shiny floors and stiff chairs were basically designed to make you feel small. I walked up to the receptionist, forcing a polite smile.

“Hello, I’d like to apply for a loan,” I said.

“Of course,” she replied, handing me a clipboard. “Fill this out and take a seat.”

I settled into a corner, my pen shaking a bit as I filled out the form. The income part felt like a public confession of my struggles. I hesitated on the assets question. I had none.