Chapter One

An Awful Person

"That's because you're awful. You are an awful person"

You can't believe you said that to her.

Her, Lynette Scavo, your best friend.

Lynette Scavo, your closest friend.

Lynette Scavo, the friend you consider a sister.

Lynette Scavo, the friend that so unselfishly held you in her arms and comforted you every time you went to her crying because you were afraid you would lose her to a cancer battle.

"You have every right to go to Hell"

No, you can't believe you said that to her either.

"You obviously aren't my friend"

As coldly spoken words go back to you, as coldly spoken words eat away at you, as coldly spoken words bruise your heart and soul as they replay themselves over and over again in your burn out head, as coldly spoken words worsen your sleepless state with their harsh effect on your restless anatomy, you kiss the forehead of your sleeping daughter, whose life has been saved by the person you called awful earlier today.

She saved your daughter, and as a consequence her twins had to be born prematurely.

She saved your daughter, and as a consequence she lost her baby boy.

She saved your daughter, and as a consequence now hers is hooked into machines that help her fighting to breathe, fighting to live, fighting to exist, while yours – thanks to her, to that person you referred of as awful, that person you said had every right to go to Hell, that person you trashed – is a little bit injured, but in despite of that, she is fine and you have the certainty that she will be okay.

She saved our daughter, and now she is lying on a hospital bed, unconscious, while her baby is lying on a crib without the warmth of a mother.

She saved our daughter, and now she is in a very, very bad shape, and doctors can't tell if she will make it through the night.

She saved her. Lynette Scavo. The woman you referred of as an awful person.

The woman you said wasn't your friend.

The woman you said had every right to go to Hell.

And as you listen to Celia's relaxed, even breaths, you think of Lynette's daughter, whose lungs are not strong enough, whose fragile body lacks of the necessary strength to fend itself.

She saved your daughter, and now hers might not survive.