Mom knew the risk was high.
She knew there's only a thirty percent chance she'll survive the open heart surgery.
So she did everything she could to ensure I was fine —as much as I could be— after she's gone.
She had already booked for her funeral, casket and all the formalities that will be required in case she died.
She had made her will and informed me that my father would immediately contact if the unfortunate happens.
She instructed me to go live with him in USA and trust him. I agreed without an argument because she always knew the best.
Her plan was all set.
I knew what I had to do if she didn't make it and if she lived, then we could forget this tough time and go back to being the happy family that we always were.
We were all set for the surgery next month when the most horrible tragedy of my life occured.
I was walking back home from school through one of the safest neighborhoods in our town, in broad daylight when I was pulled into an alleyway by a masked man who raped me.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't even stand up after he left me with my bottom half unclothe and his hand imprints on my wrists.
When I finally pushed myself up, I covered my body that he had ruined with his touch and made the worst mistake of my life.
I hid it from mom.
She asked me what's wrong but I didn't want to worry her more than she already was because of her disease. She thought I was just sad because of her condition and I didn't dare tell her what had happened to me.
I thought if I tried to forget about it, I'd one day be at peace. I thought I could pretend that it never happened and everything will be alright.
But I was so naive.
When I pucked my guts out for three days in a row, mom figured what I could not. I was so scared from the incident and mom's declining health that I didn't even consider the possibility of getting pregnant.
When she asked, I told her everything. But it was too late. I had already conceived the fetus of my rapist and was six weeks pregnant. I cried in her arms the whole night as she ran soothing fingers through my hair.
She wasn't stupid like I was. Rather than crying away for days, she collected herself by the next morning.
She asked me if I wanted to abort but I couldn't, I was too weak for that. The fourteen year old girl I was —still am— would die of guilt if I killed the life growing inside me.
I decided to keep the baby.
She bought me enough vitamins and medicines that would last me a full month even after she's gone.
She tried to educate me as much as she could in the limited time we had, instructing on what to eat and what to avoid.
She told me bits of all six of her pregnancies. Everything from early symptoms to the delivery. She assured me that it's not the end of the world and things will fall into place.
She signed me up for an online highschool so I could continue my freshman year. It is based in Australia but can be joined and completed from anywhere in the world, so moving countries wouldn't be an issue.
Lastly, she advised me to tell my father about the rape and my rapist. She said he'll handle everything. She said he'll be a great father to me. I trusted her judgement and promised to do exactly what she told me to.
She wished she could stay with me and sort everything out. She wished that she won't die and I won't have to go through all of this alone.
She tried to push her surgery date further but the doctors were adamant that it's too risky and she must be operated right away.
She had planned everything out perfectly. And I kept praying that she will be healthy and well soon. I wished she'd never leave me. I wished she'd survive this.
I wish she wouldn't die. But she did.
The moment she died, just as she predicted, my father's lawyers called social services demanding my custody to be transferred to his name.
No one dared to refuse the leader of the United States Mafia so they did as told. And right after her funeral —next afternoon of her death as she planned— I was off to Texas in a private jet.