Trigger warnings: life threatening illness, anxiety, self-loathing
Her mother's cancer diagnosis hit her like a bolt of lightning.
Tomoyo sat frozen in the dining room, her mind raced as her mother's words echoed in her ears. Stage 3. Breast cancer. Her fingers clenched around the cutlery, the metal cold against her skin, as she struggled to process the news.
Sonomi sat across from her, her expression serene and calm—so at odds with the gravity of what she had just said.
"How long have you known?" Tomoyo finally managed, her voice trembling, tears threatening to spill.
Sonomi watched her daughter in concern. "A few weeks," she admitted, her tone gentle but firm. "The doctor confirmed it last Tuesday."
Last Tuesday . That meant she had been carrying this secret alone for days, pretending everything was fine. The thought made Tomoyo's chest tighten.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Sonomi sighed, her fingers brushing Tomoyo's hand with a tenderness that only made the words more painful. "I didn't want to worry you until I had all the answers. But now... we need to prepare. The treatments are starting soon."
Chemotherapy. Radiation. Surgery. The words hit her like a wave, cold and overwhelming.
Tomoyo swallowed hard, gripping her mother's hand. She had always seen Sonomi as unshakable—a bold, ferocious woman who faced life head-on with unwavering resolve. But now, confronted with something so cruel and unforgiving, even her strength seemed fragile.
Taking a deep breath, Tomoyo pushed the panic down, forcing herself to stay present. Now wasn't the time to fall apart.
"Okay," she said, nodding, her voice firmer than she felt. "So we fight."
Sonomi's smile was small, tinged with sadness, but full of love. "Yes," she replied, her voice steady. "We fight."
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.
.
The days blurred together.
Winter vacation came and went.
The days that were once filled with laughter, snowball fights, and adventures with Sakura, Li-kun, and all their friends were now spent in a hospital room. She sat through doctor consultations, kept vigil at her mother's bedside, and watched over her as she rested after grueling chemotherapy sessions. The sterile scent of antiseptic became familiar, the rhythmic beeping of hospital machines a constant soundtrack to her days.
She didn't even realize her middle school graduation was approaching until the day had already arrived. But she never attended—her mother's surgery was scheduled that day. Instead, a member of her mother's staff collected her diploma on her behalf.
One day, her mother brought it up—softly but firmly.
"You should start learning the ropes of the company," Sonomi said, her voice steady despite the fatigue lining her features.
Before Tomoyo could protest, her mother had already made arrangements. Her executive assistant was assigned to guide her through the inner workings of the business, walking her through reports, meetings, and the weight of responsibility that came with the Daidouji name.
Sonomi also hired a university student intern—just a few years older than Tomoyo—to tutor her in business fundamentals. Unlike the seasoned professionals around her, the intern spoke in a way that made concepts easier to grasp, bridging the gap between theory and reality.
Tomoyo was only fifteen.
At first, she approached it with quiet resignation. She listened, nodded, took notes, and absorbed what she could, all while feeling like she was simply going through the motions. The numbers and graphs meant little to her, the jargon an unfamiliar language. It wasn't that she wasn't capable—she had always been a quick learner—but her heart wasn't in it.
She wanted to tell Sonomi that she wasn't ready. That she didn't want to think about profit margins or market trends when all she wanted was for her mother to get better. But she couldn't bring herself to say it.
She was born for this life. Raised with the knowledge that one day, she would inherit everything. Why, then, hadn't she prepared for it?
Maybe because she had always assumed there would be more time.
.
.
.
She hadn't meant to drift away from Sakura.
But the days were long and heavy, filled with responsibilities she had never asked for.
How was she supposed to talk about board meetings and hospital visits when Sakura was still caught up in the warmth of magical yet ordinary days? How could she explain the weight pressing down on her chest—the fear, the loneliness—without breaking apart?
So she stayed silent. She let the distance grow, not out of neglect, but because she didn't know how to bridge it.
By the time she finally enrolled in Seijou, it was too late. Schedules had been set, placements assigned. She wasn't in the same class as her friends. Another thing she hadn't been ready for.
She told herself it didn't matter. That she could handle it.
But some nights, when she sat alone in her room, she wondered if she had lost something she could never quite get back.
.
.
.
One Saturday morning, in the second week of April, Tomoyo accompanied her mother to a shareholder's meeting.
Sonomi was still frail. She had lost weight that her once-tailored suits now hung a bit loose on her frame. The turban she wore—elegant as always—covered the hair that chemotherapy had taken, but nothing could hide the fatigue in her eyes.
The meeting wasn't about corporate strategy or financial forecasts. It was a statement. A reminder to the board, the executives, and the shareholders that Sonomi Daidouji was still alive, still in control. And that when the time came, her daughter would inherit her shares—though not immediate control.
Tomoyo sat beside her mother at the long conference table, hands folded in her lap. She felt the weight of the gazes around her—the board members, the executives, the investors—all watching her with varying degrees of interest. Some with sympathy, others with calculation.
She had no voting power yet, no real authority. If Sonomi passed away before Tomoyo came of age, a trustee—likely one of the company's senior executives—would manage her shares. But even now, at just fifteen, she was being assessed.
How much did she know? Was she ready? Could she be influenced?
Sonomi's voice, though softer than it once was, held firm. She addressed the room with the same poise and confidence she always had, reinforcing her presence despite her frailty. She spoke about stability, about long-term vision. About the future.
And though she didn't say it outright, everyone in the room understood the message: Do not make moves against me. Do not assume my daughter will be weak.
Tomoyo kept her face composed, her posture straight. But inside, she was unraveling.
She wasn't ready.
Once the meeting was over, Tomoyo excused herself as politely as she could, walking swiftly but steadily through the halls. She didn't stop until she reached the farthest bathroom, one she knew would be empty.
The moment the door closed behind her, the composure she had fought so hard to maintain shattered.
Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Her chest tightened, her vision blurred. She gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white, but it wasn't enough to ground her. Her stomach twisted violently, and before she could stop herself, she lurched toward the nearest stall and retched, emptying what little breakfast she had managed to eat that morning.
The world spun.
For a brief, terrifying moment, it felt as if she were drowning—drowning in expectations, in responsibilities she had never asked for, in a future she wasn't sure she wanted.
She had always known this life was waiting for her. She had been raised with the unspoken understanding that, one day, she would take her mother's place.
But that day had always felt distant. A someday, not a now.
And yet, today had felt like a glimpse into that future—a future where her mother was gone, and she was alone, expected to carry a legacy she wasn't sure she could bear.
A dry sob escaped her lips as she pressed her forehead against the cool metal of the stall.
After a few moments, she forced herself to straighten, wiping her mouth with trembling fingers. She took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to steady herself. The meeting was over. No one had seen her break.
She would walk out of this bathroom with the same poise she had in that boardroom. She would return to her mother's side, offer a small smile, and pretend she was fine.
Because that was what was expected of her.
Even if, deep down, she felt like she was falling apart.
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.
.
That night, Tomoyo lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling.
The lights outside her window softly lit up her room, casting long shadows on the walls. The house was quiet, except for the occasional creak of the floor and the distant sound of a passing car.
She should have been asleep.
Instead, her mind refused to shut up.
She had wanted to ask her mother. The words had been on the tip of her tongue so many times. Do I really have to inherit the company?
But she could never bring herself to say them.
What would it even mean if she refused?
Would her mother be disappointed? Angry? Would she see Tomoyo as weak, ungrateful, unworthy of everything she had been given?
And if she didn't take it… what then?
Would Sonomi name a successor? Some trusted executive, someone more competent, someone who had spent years working their way up and knew the business inside and out? Or would she expect Tomoyo to marry someone—someone who could take over in her place?
Tomoyo turned onto her side, pressing her face into her pillow.
The thought made her stomach twist.
It was an old-fashioned idea, almost laughable today. But she'd seen it before—business marriages, families merging through engagement contracts. She imagined her mother deciding who was worthy to lead, while Tomoyo became just an accessory to the legacy.
And maybe that would be easier. Maybe it would be a way out.
But the thought of it made her feel sick .
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She should want this.
She should be grateful.
She had a future others could only dream of. No uncertainty, no instability. While others her age were still figuring out their dreams, hers was already waiting for her. A company. A fortune. A legacy.
So why did it feel like a cage?
Why did she feel like she was suffocating?
Her hands curled into fists beneath the blanket.
She hated this hesitation, this weakness. She hated herself for not being able to just accept it. For not being the daughter her mother deserved.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know if she wanted this life.
But she didn't know if she had the right to refuse it, either.
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.
A month into her first year of high school, Eriol Hiiragizawa returned as an exchange student from England.
Tomoyo barely noticed his arrival.
Her mind was preoccupied with the anxiety gnawing at her—her mother's hospital appointment was later that day. The results could determine whether the treatments were working or if the cancer was advancing.
She was stressed, not only because of the appointment but also because her mother had gone back to the office, despite the doctor's clear advice to rest.
Tomoyo couldn't help the growing resentment she felt.
It was as if her mother, even now, refused to take care of herself.
This work—this constant drive—was what had likely contributed to her illness in the first place.
Cancer at 39.
That thought alone was enough to make her heart ache with anger and helplessness. Sonomi had pushed herself so hard for so long, and now she was still insisting on working, even in her fragile state.
Tomoyo couldn't understand it.
Releasing a frustrated breath, Tomoyo tried to focus on the teacher, but the words barely registered. Her pen moved across the page in an automatic rhythm, but the classroom felt distant, as though she were watching everything through a fog.
Blinking, she glanced down at her notes and frowned. Her writing had dissolved into meaningless loops and lines, the kind she scrawled absentmindedly when her mind drifted too far. With a quiet sigh, she straightened her posture and forced herself to tune in, catching fragments of the lecture and piecing them together as best she could.
Unbeknownst to her, a pair of blue eyes watched quietly from across the room.
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A/N: Hope you're all well. Thanks for reading and please do leave a review. I feel like a ghost haunting this fandom.