Irene stirred as the door to her hospital room creaked open. She didn't need to look up to know it was her mom. The familiar click of her heels on the tile floor had always grated on Irene's nerves.

"How are you feeling?" her mom asked, her voice sharp, but with an undertone of concern that Irene wasn't sure she wanted.

Irene stared out the window, avoiding eye contact. "Better, I guess," she muttered, wincing as she adjusted in the bed. The headache from the storm was still lingering, but it wasn't just physical pain that made her feel heavy.

Her mom huffed, taking a step closer. "You guess? Is that all you have to say after everything that's happened?"

Irene bristled, but kept her eyes fixed on the view outside. "What do you want me to say? That I'm so sorry I put you through this? I didn't ask for this to happen."

Her mom's voice grew more irritated, the edges of her frustration clearly building. "No, of course you didn't. You never ask for anything. But you always manage to get yourself into situations that leave me cleaning up the mess."

Irene turned to face her, a frown forming. "I didn't ask for your help. You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," her mom interrupted, her hands on her hips. "I don't know what you're thinking, running off into a forest, acting like you're invincible. Do you have any idea what could've happened to you?"

The words hit harder than Irene expected. She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to snap back. "Yeah, I know. I know it scared you, okay? But it scared me, too."

Her mom softened for a moment, her eyes glancing at the floor as if the anger had drained out of her. "I don't want to lose you, Irene. You think I don't care? But I can't keep bailing you out every time you get in trouble."

Irene bit her lip, the guilt gnawing at her, but she refused to let it show. "I never asked you to bail me out. Maybe if you actually listened, you'd know what I need."

A heavy silence fell between them. Irene's mom exhaled sharply, stepping back from the bed. "You know I'm doing the best I can, but sometimes I don't know how to help you if you won't let me."

Irene's heart ached, but she wasn't sure what to say. "I didn't ask for this... any of this," she said softly, more to herself than her mom.

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Her mom's expression softened just slightly. "Neither did I. But you're mine, Irene. You're my daughter. I just want to keep you safe."

Irene looked down at her hands, fighting back the tears she knew weren't far behind. "I know you do, Mom. I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Her mom sighed heavily, rubbing her temples as if Irene's words were too much to handle. "I don't understand you sometimes, Irene. You always act like you're fine, like you've got everything under control, but look where it's gotten you. Look at what's happened. You think I don't see the pattern?" She paused, shaking her head. "I don't know why you insist on making everything so hard for yourself."

Irene's heart sank, her mom's words slicing through the air like a knife. She could feel the judgment in her voice, the disappointment that never quite went away.

"You act like you don't need anyone, but when things go wrong, you're the first to expect me to come rushing in to fix it." Her mom's gaze narrowed as she spoke, the weight of her words making Irene feel smaller by the second. "I've tried to give you space, to let you figure things out on your own, but maybe you're just not cut out for that. You make decisions without thinking, and then you end up in situations where you don't even know how to get out of. I don't know what you want me to say anymore, Irene."

Irene flinched at the harshness of her mother's tone, the sting of it sinking deep. Her mom didn't even seem to realize how cold her words were, but they burned nonetheless.

"I'm just trying to protect you. But you make it so difficult," her mom muttered, almost as an afterthought. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Her mom looked at Irene for a long moment, her expression softening slightly, but only just. "I need to go check on Jericho," she said, her voice clipped. "He's not in the best shape either, and I can't just leave him hanging around here."

Irene opened her mouth to respond, but her mom held up a hand, cutting her off before she could speak. "I know you think you're fine," she added, her tone carrying a mix of exhaustion and finality, "but you need to rest. You've already put yourself through enough. Don't make me come back to find you up and trying to do something stupid. I'm not going to have that."

With that, she turned to leave, but not before adding one last thing: "I'll be back later. Don't get up."

When her mother left, Irene was left alone with her thoughts, and the silence in the room felt suffocating. The sting of her mother's words lingered, each one cutting deeper than the last. She felt a mixture of anger and sadness swell up inside her—anger at how distant and cold her mother had been and sadness for the tension between them that seemed impossible to bridge. But as much as she tried to focus on anything else, one image refused to leave her mind: Phoebe on the highway. Bloodstained Phoebe's face, her nose a mess of crimson, but it wasn't just the blood that haunted Irene. It was the look in Phoebe's eyes—the way her face twisted with a mix of hurt and anger. Irene couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at her every time she thought of it. She hadn't been there for Phoebe when she needed her, and now it felt like the weight of that failure was too much to bear.