**this is based on Jessica's Mother's Day post from last year**
A story of three generations of love, care, and rediscovery.
The envelope was still sealed when Jessica found it buried under a stack of old mail and preschool art projects—smudged fingerprints, scribbled blue crayon hearts, and the word "MOMMY" spelled backward.
She had applied on a whim, one night after Roman finally fell asleep, her heart full of a quiet, aching hope. And now, the letter.
Her hands trembled as she carefully broke the seal. Her breath caught on a single word: Congratulations.
Graduate school. In Los Angeles. Her dream.
A scream, a dance, a cry—all of it welled up inside her at once.
But just a few weeks later, everything changed.
⸻
Lori's voice on the phone was calm, too calm. Jessica recognized that tone—the protective one, the voice that had soothed scraped knees, heartbreaks, disappointments, and all the miles that ever lay between them.
"I went in for the mammogram. They want to start treatment soon," Lori said gently. "Jess... it's breast cancer."
The room spun. Jessica grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter.
"I'm coming to you," Lori added quickly, as if she'd already sensed her daughter's panic. "Don't even think about deferring."
"But Mom, I—"
"No. You're starting school. I'll move in with you and Alec for a little while. Just until I get through the worst of it. I'll be more help than trouble. I promise."
Jessica bit back tears. "You're not trouble, Mom. You're never trouble."
And just like that, Lori packed up her life in Phoenix—leaving behind her house, her neighborhood, the desert light—and moved into Jessica's quiet, sun-filled guest room in Los Angeles.
It had been over a decade since they'd lived in the same state. Even longer since they'd shared the same home.
⸻
Settling In
Lori arrived on a Monday morning, her suitcase barely half-full, her hands carrying baked goods for Roman and a tiny bag of lemon drops, which she said would help with nausea. Alec took the day off work and picked her up from the airport, giving her the window seat in the car and helping her carry her bags up the walkway.
"Yiayia!" Roman cried when he saw her, using the one Greek word he knew. He flung his arms around her legs and buried his face in her coat.
"Well, that just made the whole trip worth it," Lori said softly, smiling down at him with tears in her eyes.
Jessica stood at the door, watching, a quiet storm of worry and gratitude swirling in her chest.
The Routine
Within weeks, the house settled into a rhythm. Morning meds. Light breakfast. Roman's school drop-off. Chemo appointments. Study sessions. Quiet dinners. Long nights.
Alec stayed steady—doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen, making phone calls when Jess couldn't bring herself to pick up the phone. He didn't talk much about what was happening, but he always showed up. Every time.
On the good days, Lori braided Roman's hair into silly patterns and read books with exaggerated voices, making him laugh until he snorted. On the bad days, she stayed curled beneath blankets, her body too fragile, her skin gray and tight.
