Faithful Horizons

Chapter 7: Conflict at Home

Ethan closed the door to the apartment, the soft click echoing in the stillness. He dropped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes, his feet sinking into the worn carpet. The place felt quieter than usual, and it unnerved him.

"Mom?" he called, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. No answer.

A pang of worry shot through him as he walked down the dim hallway toward her bedroom. He knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open. She was lying on her side, curled under a blanket, her face pale against the pillow. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the sound barely audible in the silent room.

Ethan stepped closer, kneeling by the edge of the bed. "Mom?"

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she gave him a faint smile. "Hey, sweetheart." Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"You didn't answer when I called," Ethan said, trying to keep the worry out of his tone.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I was just resting. Lost track of time."

Ethan reached out, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. She was warm - too warm. "Your fever's back."

"It's nothing," she said weakly, brushing him off. "Just a little flare-up."

Ethan stood, his jaw tightening. "You need to see a doctor."

"We've been over this," she said, a touch of firmness creeping into her voice. "We can't afford it right now. I'll be fine. I just need to rest."

Ethan turned away, gripping the edge of her dresser to steady himself. He hated this - hated the helplessness, the frustration that bubbled under his skin every time she refused help.

"I'll make you some tea," he said finally, his voice clipped.

"Thank you, honey," she whispered, her eyes closing again.

In the kitchen, Ethan filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. He leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his face. The exhaustion weighed on him like a physical force, dragging him down with every breath. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out reluctantly.

Grace: Hey! Just wanted to check in. How's your day going?

Ethan stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: Not great.

Her reply came quickly. Want to talk about it?

He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of him wanted to open up, to let someone else carry the weight for a little while. But another part - the part that had spent years learning to rely on himself - held him back.

Finally, he typed: Not really. Just tired.

Grace's response was almost immediate. That's okay. I'm here if you change your mind.

Ethan sighed, sliding the phone back into his pocket as the kettle began to whistle.

Later that evening, after his mom had gone to bed, Ethan found himself sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. His phone sat on the coffee table, Grace's earlier message glowing faintly on the lock screen.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the phone and typed: What do you do when everything feels... impossible?"

It took her a few minutes to respond, and Ethan's nerves built with every passing second. Finally, her reply came through.

Grace: I pray.

Ethan frowned, his thumb hovering over the screen. He wasn't sure what he'd expected her to say, but that answer felt both too simple and impossibly difficult.

Ethan: What if you don't know how?

Her next message came quickly. That's okay. God doesn't care about the words. Just tell Him what you're feeling. He'll listen.

Ethan stared at the message, a strange tightness building in his chest. He wanted to believe her, but the idea of praying - of talking to someone who might not even exist - felt foreign and awkward.

The next morning, Ethan woke to the sound of coughing. He stumbled out of bed, his heart racing as he followed the sound to his mom's room. She was sitting up in bed, her face flushed and her breaths coming in short gasps.

"Mom," he said urgently, moving to her side. "What's wrong?"

"Just... having a little trouble catching my breath," she wheezed.

"That's it," Ethan said, grabbing his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"No," she protested weakly, reaching for his arm. "It's too expensive -"

"I don't care," Ethan snapped, the fear in his voice cutting through her words. "You're going to the hospital, and that's final."

Hours later, Ethan sat in the waiting room, his head in his hands. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the smell of antiseptic clung to the air. He'd spent the last two hours replaying every argument he'd ever had with his mom, every moment he could've done more, every decision that might've made a difference.

The soft buzz of his phone broke through his thoughts.

Grace: Thinking of you. Praying for your mom.

Ethan wondered how she heard that his mom was in the hospital, but he didn't care. He stared at the message, his throat tightening. He didn't know what to say.

That night, when his mom was finally stable and resting in a hospital bed, Ethan found himself sitting alone in the car. The silence pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. For the first time in his life, he folded his hands in his lap, bowed his head, and whispered into the darkness.

"God... if You're there, I don't what I'm supposed to say. I don't know if You even care. But if You do... please help her. Please."

His voice cracked on the last word, and he sat there for a long time, his breathing uneven. When he finally drove home, the silence in the apartment felt a little less overwhelming.

A/N:

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