A sala de espera cheirava a desinfetante e café velho. Emma segurava a bolsa no colo e mantinha os olhos na mãe, sentada ao lado dela, respirando fundo. Um painel eletrônico apitou. O nome deles apareceu. Emma se levantou primeiro.
"Vamos, mãe. Devagar."
Dentro do consultório, o Dr. Collins mostrou o monitor com uma linha subindo e descendo. Ele não deu voltas no mato.
"A Sra. Isabel tem estenose aórtica grave. A válvula é muito estreita. É por isso que ela está cansada, tonta e com dor no peito. A qualquer momento ela poderia desmaiar ou desmaiar. A cirurgia é urgente."
Isabel squeezed her daughter's fingers. Emma just nodded.
"How long can we wait?" she asked.
"Ideally, we don't wait." He handed over a paper. "We have two options: open surgery or a catheter implant. Both are expensive. The basic plan won't cover it in time. In the public system, the waitlist could take months. Privately, I can admit her this week."
Emma looked down at the sheet. She saw amounts, fees, daily rates. She didn't memorize numbers. All she understood was that it was way too high.
"Is there any assistance? Any way to speed things up in the public system?"
"I can involve social services. But honestly, I can't promise." He set the pen down. "I know it's a lot at once. The decision has to be quick."
Isabel looked at Emma. She was pale, but tried a short smile.
"I'll be fine, honey."
Emma took a deep breath.
"What do we need to sign to admit her today?"
"For today, we need payment guarantee." Collins pulled out a folder. "This is the estimate. And these are the terms."
Emma took everything carefully, as if the paper might tear.
"I'll see what I can do," she said. "I'll give you an answer today."
In the hallway, Isabel walked slowly, one hand on the wall.
"Don't look at me like that," she said, trying to joke. "I just need a new key in here."
"It'll be fine," Emma replied, unable to hold her gaze.
Before leaving, she stopped in the bathroom. Splashed water on her face. Her hands trembled. She sent a quick message to her boss: "My mom is going to be hospitalized. I'll need to miss work." She didn't wait for a reply.
Outside, the wind was cold. Emma called a rideshare. Helped her mother inside, fixed the seatbelt, set the bag by her feet.
"Do you want anything when we get home?" she asked.
"Tea. And some soup," Isabel whispered.
Emma nodded. Bit her lip to hold the rest back.
---
The apartment was small. Open kitchen, two chairs, worn-out couch. Emma settled her mother in the bedroom with higher pillows and a light blanket. She prepared tea, soup, set the meds in order. Wrote down times on a sheet of paper and stuck it on the fridge with a magnet. The clock read 1:47 p.m.
She started calling. Childhood friend: nothing. Work colleague: "I'll check with my husband." A distant uncle: "I'll ask someone I know at the public hospital." Everyone promised to get back. No one had an answer.
In the middle of the afternoon, she emptied her wallet onto the table—cards, coins, overdue bills. She searched for her mother's documents: ID, insurance card, old test results. She needed a miracle, a loan, something. She opened a cardboard box with her father's papers. Old documents, notes, receipts, a cracked-cover notebook.
When she turned the first page, a yellowed business card slipped out:
MONROE HOLDINGS — Richard Monroe.
On the side, in blue pen, her father's handwriting: "If it gets tough, trust him."
Emma went still for a few seconds. She remembered the backyard, her father's voice, a Sunday barbecue. Richard sitting by the grill, laughing at something silly. Her father beside him, relaxed, as if the world were simple. And a tall, quiet boy a bit apart: Gabriel. Hands in his pockets, far too serious for his age.
She took a deep breath. Her father had been gone for years. Richard… she didn't know. But here was a name, a path.
She picked up her phone. Typed "Monroe Holdings." Found the number. Dialed.
"Executive department," a woman answered, voice clear, trained.
"I need to speak with Mr. Richard Monroe. It's urgent." Emma's voice came out low. "My father was Robert Davis. They were friends."
"The subject, please?"
"My mother's health. She needs surgery now. I can't afford it."
There was a pause. The receptionist asked for Emma's full name and put her on hold. The waiting music was soft. At 2:22 p.m., a click. The line changed.
"Emma Davis," a firm male voice said. "My father passed away two years ago. This is Gabriel Monroe."
Emma closed her eyes for a second.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Silence. Not hostile, but not warm either.
"What's the diagnosis?"
"Severe aortic stenosis. The doctor said it's urgent. I have the tests, the reports, the cost estimate."
"Send everything now to the email I'll dictate." He spoke slowly, syllable by syllable. "Then describe your situation. Include your phone number and address."
Emma wrote it down on paper, double-checked, opened her laptop. Scanned, took photos of what didn't fit in the scanner, bundled everything into a folder, wrote in the subject line: "Urgent — Emma Davis — reports and costs." Sent it.
"It's already in your inbox," she said.
The line was silent for a few seconds that felt long. She heard papers shifting, a restrained breath, the distant tapping of a keyboard.
"I understand," he said at last. "I don't discuss this over the phone."
"Farei o que for preciso," Emma disse, não sobrou escolha em seu tom. "Meu pai confiava no seu pai. Eu só… preciso de ajuda."
Havia movimento do outro lado, como se ele tivesse se inclinado para mais perto.
"Amanhã, oito em ponto, Monroe Holdings, recepção executiva. Traga relatórios impressos. Não se atrase."
"Eu estarei lá."
"Esteja preparado para decisões difíceis."
A chamada terminou.
Emma ficou com o telefone na mão por alguns segundos, ouvindo o barulho da rua pela janela. Ela colocou o cartão de Richard dentro do caderno.
Naquela noite, sua amiga ligou chorando.
"Emma, eu queria ajudar, mas não posso. Estou rezando por vocês dois."
"Obrigada," ela respondeu, tentando manter a voz firme.
Ela desligou e olhou para o telefone em silêncio. Não havia mais ninguém para ligar.
Ela organizou os testes em uma pasta transparente, reservou uma caneta e um bloco de notas e preparou uma muda de roupa para sua mãe. Documentos verificados, bolsa, carteira. Defina dois alarmes: seis e seis-quinze.
Ela foi para o quarto, ajustou o travesseiro da mãe e verificou sua respiração. Depois foi para seu próprio quarto e deitou-se sem trocar de roupa.
Ela olhou para o telefone uma última vez. O relógio marcava 23h47.
Ela fechou os olhos com um pensamento fixo na cabeça:
Amanhã, às oito, Monroe Holdings.