Priorities

The pistachio shells were still rattling in the camper when everything broke.

Mum collapsed on the kitchen floor.

Heart attack.

Ambulance lights filled the walls.

The boys stood frozen while I held it together.

Two days later, another call, for me this time.

Cervical cancer.

And somewhere in the middle of all that—

Westley’s birthday came.

No message.

No call.

No “sorry, I forgot.”

Nothing.

He went on his boys’ weekend.

Margaret River.

Didn’t stop by.

Didn’t check in.

Didn’t ask how Mum was.

Didn’t ask how I was.

I told myself it was an accident.

That he didn’t realise.

So I reached out, carefully, lightly, then more desperately.

He went cold.

Said my attitude was ruining his weekend.

Said I was guilt-tripping him.

I didn’t hang up.

Didn’t walk away.

I adjusted.

Tried to land the message in a way he could accept.

Because if I could just say it right, he’d understand.

Right?

THE BOYS WEEKEND

He crashed his bike on that trip to Margaret River.

Texted me from the hospital, pathetic selfie attached.

Blood. Sling. That same tone.

“Hey, I’d understand if you don’t want to see me again.”

“Come here,” I said. “I’ll take care of you.”

I cooked dinner.

Cut his food.

Helped him shower.

Set him up on the couch.

Adjusted his arm when he winced.

At one point, I asked about Robbie.

School the next morning.

He hadn’t organised anything.

So I helped him reach out to one of the other mums to take him to school.

Later, I sat next to him at the kitchen table.

Tried to explain what the last week had been like.

Mum.

The diagnosis.

Westley's birthday.

He nodded.

Slow.

Distant.

I realised later he was high.

He didn't remember a word of it.

That night, I stayed awake. Helping him get comfortable in his tossing and turning. Making sure he didn’t roll onto his arm.

At 6 a.m., he ordered an Uber. Said he’d be back in a couple of hours.

Instead, a message.

“Hi Trinity, it became fairly apparent to me yesterday you don’t really care about what happens to Robbie. I felt like you only cared that I was at your house to help you. I’m sorry, mate, but I’m not abandoning my kids and life just for you. I’m also concerned about how you treated me when I went away with my friends. There’s just too much for me to ignore.
I appreciate you helping me last night, but I’ve got a lot to get through over the next few weeks, and I can’t be driving to and from Mandurah every second day. Wish you all the best with everything. You truly are an amazing woman, but I don’t have it in me to keep juggling everything just to keep you happy.”

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower.

I knelt down on the grass.

My legs just… gave out.

His reasons didn’t make sense.

They weren’t even true.

I called. Blocked.

I sat on the couch.

The same one.

Dinner still in the fridge.

His plate still in the sink.

The towel I used to dry his hair draped over the chair.

Twelve hours earlier, I had been cutting his food.

Now he was gone.

I suppose that nothing about this was confusing.

I just didn’t accept the answer.

And I believed in a self-sacrificial love.