By the time the buzzer sounded over the Bookside Middle School gym, Jay Ellis had already decided that tonight, absolutely nothing—not homework, not holiday decorations, not even his mom—was coming between him and his PlayStation.
He sprinted down the court in his worn-out Jordans, orange-and-blue California sun slanting through the high windows, the sound of squeaking rubber echoing off the walls. Mikey hit him with a perfect bounce pass. Jay took one dribble, rose up, and nailed the jumper.
Net. Clean. The boys howled like they’d just won the NBA Finals.
“Jay, pass it to me!” Mikey shouted.
“In your dreams,” Jay laughed, grabbing the rebound and dribbling back out, adrenaline buzzing in his veins. “I’m cooking right now!”
Basketball, video games, the next Marvel movie—this was the life of a fourteen-year-old in suburban America. Not lights-out curfews. Not chores. And definitely not holiday decorations.
By the time he burst through the front door of their small, two-bedroom house, his backpack half-zipped and one earbud still dangling from his hoodie, his mind had already leaped ahead to one thing: 2K with the boys.
He didn’t even see his mother at first.
He saw the TV.
“Jay, pass it! Pass it! I’m open!” Mikey was shouting down his headset, voice tinny through Jay’s phone speaker as he connected his console controller. “Derek and Noah already logged on. You’re late, man.”
“I just got home,” Jay said, toeing off his sneakers without really looking up. “Give me two seconds.”
Just as he stepped into the living room, the screen went dark.
“Hey!” he yelped. “What are you doing? I can’t see!”
His mother stepped between him and the TV, remote in hand, wearing scrubs and a look that said her patience had officially run out.
“Seems like this is the only way I can get a proper hello from my own son,” she said calmly, one eyebrow lifted. “You’ve been home five minutes and I got exactly zero ‘hey, Mom’ and about nineteen ‘pass me the ball.’”
“Mom,” Jay groaned, reaching around her like she was a defender. “Move. There’s no time, okay? Mikey and I promised Derek and Noah we’d play the second we got home. Literally the second.”
“Oh, it has to be the literal second?” she asked. “The universe will collapse if it’s two minutes later?”
“I’m a man of my word,” he said, like he’d just quoted the Constitution.
Her eye twitched.
“That’s interesting,” she replied, “because if my memory serves me correctly, Mr. Man of His Word, you promised me you’d help with the holiday decorations when you got home from school.”
“Oh,” Jay said, deflating slightly. “Right. That.”
The plastic storage bins sat open by the couch—lights half-untangled, ornaments still in tissue, a bare artificial Christmas tree leaning against the wall like a forgotten soldier. Outside, their Southern California neighborhood had already started glowing with twinkling lights and inflatable snowmen, even though the closest thing the town ever got to winter was a chilly ocean breeze and a random rainstorm.
“Decorating can wait,” Jay said. “We’ll do it later. I promise. Just let me get this dub, Mom. Please.”
“I have work in a few hours. This is the only time I have to do them, Jay.”
“Can’t you just… do it by yourself?” he asked, regretting it even before the last word left his mouth.
She looked at him for a long beat, like she wasn’t sure which stung more—the fact that he’d forgotten or the fact that he’d suggested she decorate their little house alone while he holed up in his room shouting into a headset.
Finally, she stepped aside and tossed the remote onto the couch.
“Clearly,” she said, “the game is more important.”
Jay didn’t hear the hurt under the sarcasm.
“Love you, Mom!” he called, dropping down in front of the TV, thumb already jamming the power button. “Pass it! Pass it! I’m open!”
In the kitchen doorway, his mom watched him for another moment, then turned away, her scrubs whispering as she walked.
Sometimes it felt like being a single mom in America meant mastering the art of swallowing disappointment on the way to your next twelve-hour shift.
She swallowed, picked up the box of ornaments, and started decorating the tree by herself.
The next broken promise came wrapped in sugar and sprinkles.
“You said you were going to help me make cookies today,” Mom said the following afternoon, standing in the kitchen with a grocery bag of supplies—flour, sugar, butter, red and green sprinkles, chocolate chips. Through the window, palm trees waved lazily in the December breeze. “I went to the store and everything.”
Jay already had his shoes on.
He clutched his phone in his hand like a boarding pass. “Right. About that. Okay, so Mikey’s about to start Endgame and Infinity War and—”
“You said yes last night,” she reminded him. “You said, ‘Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll help tomorrow.’”
“Okay, but he rented both Avengers movies,” Jay said, as if this constituted an emergency recognized by federal law. “Do you know how long those are? If I’m late we’ll have to start in the middle and that’s just… wrong.”
“These aren’t just for fun.” She set the bag on the counter with more force than necessary. “They’re for my patients at the hospital. Some of them don’t have anybody, Jay. Cookies brighten their day.”
“Technically,” he said, “you don’t need my help. You’re, like, legendary with cookies. You’ve been baking them since before I could walk.”
“I don’t need your help,” she agreed. “I wanted you there. Together.”
He shifted from foot to foot.
“My friends are waiting,” he said softly. “I promise I’ll help you wrap presents when I get back. Cross my heart. I’ll be home by four. Five at the latest. Before you leave for work.”
She stared at him.
“Fine,” she said finally, pressing her lips together. “Go.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, pecking her cheek. “You’re the best! Love you!”
The front door slammed. She exhaled and pulled out the mixer.
By 5:15, the kitchen was filled with the smell of sugar and vanilla and cinnamon. Cooling racks covered every inch of counter space. Dozens of warm, imperfect circles of dough, topped with sprinkles she’d thought Jay would insist on dumping himself, waited to be packed into containers.
By 5:30, the clock on the wall ticked just a little louder.
By 5:45, she stopped glancing at the door.
She washed the mixing bowls alone, the rubber gloves squeaking against stainless steel, and told herself not to cry over cookies.
“Whoa,” Noah said when Jay got back to his own street as the sky turned pink and purple. “Looks like Santa exploded at your house.”
Next door, their neighbor’s yard was glowing: plastic reindeer, fake snow, and a giant inflatable Santa holding a surfboard, a little nod to their California zip code. Jay’s house looked decent—Mom had managed to put up a few lights, string some garland, and decorate the tree—but he could see where she’d left spaces for him. An empty corner where they always put the star together. A cleared coffee table with wrapping paper and tape.
He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. Guilt pricked, then faded as quickly as a phone notification.
She’ll be fine, he told himself. She always is.
He pushed the front door open and walked into what felt like a different house.
Wrapping paper was everywhere. Tissue, ribbons, half-covered boxes, an army of gifts lined up by the door labeled in his mom’s looping nurse handwriting: ICU – ROOM 3, 5 EAST – NURSE STATION, DR. WILSON’S KIDS. The tree glowed quietly in the corner, star already on top.
In the kitchen, his mother was just snapping the lid onto the last container of cookies.
“Whoa,” he said. “There’s a lot going on in here.”
“Yes,” she said, not looking up. “There is.”
“You, uh… need any help?”
“Did you or did you not promise me,” she asked, each word clear, “that you would be back no later than five to help me wrap these?”
Jay glanced at the microwave clock. It flashed 5:52.
“Okay, so, I thought Mikey only rented Endgame,” he began, sliding into his favorite excuse voice, “but then it turned out he had Infinity War too, and, like, I had to finish the story, right? You can’t just stop halfway through the—”
She snapped the plastic lid shut.
“You know what?” she said, cutting him off. “It’s fine. Clearly keeping your promises isn’t a priority for you. Luckily, I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need anyone else.”
She forced a smile. “Great job, Mom,” she told herself under her breath.
“See? That’s what I’m always saying,” Jay said. “We make a great team.”
A bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.
His little brother stuck his head out. “Mom?” Noah asked. “You want me to help carry stuff to the car?”
“Yes, please, baby,” she said. “And Jay?”
He straightened.
“Stay away from those cookies,” she said, pointing a warning finger. “Those are for my patients.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, backing up. “I’m going to the bathroom. But… for real, Mom, I’ll help next time. I promise.”
He disappeared down the hall. His mom watched the empty doorway for a second, then turned back to the stack of gifts that still needed to make it out the door and into her trunk before her shift.
“Imagine how he’d feel,” she muttered, more to herself than to Noah, “if I didn’t show up to one of his games. Or forgot to pick him up. Or didn’t bother keeping my word.”
Noah paused, balancing a box of cookies. “He’d be mad,” the eleven-year-old said wisely. “For sure.”
She sighed. “Maybe it’s time he got a taste of his own medicine.”
Noah grinned. “Ooooh,” he said. “Like a mom plot twist.”
She ruffled his hair. “Something like that.”
The hospital didn’t smell like cookies. It smelled like bleach and coffee and fear.
On the oncology floor of the small community hospital just outside Los Angeles, Nurse Ellis—known there simply as “Miss Ellis” or “Ashley” or “the one with the good smile”—wheeled a cart piled high with treats from room to room.
She knocked gently on the door of Room 312.
“Miss Gretchen?” she said softly, peeking in.
An elderly woman in a faded UCLA sweatshirt lay propped up in bed, white hair like a halo against the pillow. Her eyes fluttered open at the smell of warm sugar.
“You’re an angel,” she rasped. “Is that… chocolate chip?”
“With extra chips,” Ashley said, placing a cookie on a napkin and handing it to her. “Thought you might like one.”
“You are too good to us,” Gretchen said. “Thank you, dear.”
Ashley started to leave, but the older woman reached out, her fingers trembling.
“Actually,” she asked, “could I borrow your phone for a second?”
“Of course,” Ashley said immediately, pulling her cell from her pocket. “Is everything okay?”
“My son,” Gretchen said. “Benny. He promised he’d call me before I went in for surgery tomorrow. Just wanted to make sure my phone was working.”
Ashley’s heart sank a little.
“I’m sure he will,” she said. “Maybe he just lost track of time.”
The older woman smiled sadly.
“My son always loses track of time,” she said. “When he was little, we used to joke that his watch must run on a different planet. Now… sometimes I wonder if I was too easy on him. Should’ve been harder about these things. Kept my promises to him too much and let him break his to me.”
She sighed, looking down at the cookie she hadn’t yet taken a bite of.
“Anyway. I just want to hear his voice,” she whispered. “Just once more before I’m… put under.”
“I’m sure he’ll come through,” Ashley said, squeezing her hand. “And I’m sure he loves you, even if he’s terrible at showing up.”
She handed over the phone. The older woman dialed with shaky fingers, listening to the ring.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
She forced a smile and handed the phone back. “He’ll call,” Ashley said again.
But as she pushed the cookie cart down the hallway, the words echoed back to her with another face attached. A fourteen-year-old face. A boy who could nail a buzzer beater and recite Marvel dialogue but somehow couldn’t keep a promise for the life of him.
Maybe, she thought, it was time to stop just telling him why it mattered, and let him feel it.
The next morning, Jay stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up, eyes still foggy from a late-night gaming session. The clock on the microwave glowed 7:15 a.m. The bus passed at 7:45. This left exactly just enough time for–
He inhaled.
Nothing. No butter. No syrup. No chocolate chip pancakes, which under normal circumstances would be sizzling on the skillet like a tiny morning miracle.
“Mom?” he called. “Where are my pancakes?”
She sat at the table, already dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, hair twisted up, scrolling on her phone. A bland-looking bran muffin sat in front of his empty plate.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “That. I did say I was going to make pancakes, didn’t I? Sorry, honey. I forgot.”
He stared at the muffin like it had insulted his ancestors.
“You… what?”
“I’ve decided to take a hot yoga class before work,” she said. “Traffic on the 405 is going to be a nightmare if I don’t leave early. Here.” She slid the muffin toward him. “Have a good day.”
“Wait,” he said. “Aren’t you dropping me off at school?”
She stood, stretching. “Oh, right. I did promise that, too, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, Jay. I must’ve lost track of time. But hey, there’s always the bus, right? That’s what kids all over America do.”
“Mom,” he said, voice going sharp. “Come on. The bus is gross. And it’s cold outside.”
“You’ll survive,” she said. “Oh, and I may be a little late picking you up after practice. But I definitely, absolutely promise I’ll get you… eventually.”
He narrowed his eyes. Something in her tone felt off. Too casual. Too familiar.
“Are you… messing with me?” he asked.
She smiled, the same way he’d smiled at her when he’d said he’d be back by five “at the latest.”
“Have a great day, baby,” she said, kissing his forehead. “Love you.”
He walked to the bus stop with his hood up, clutching the muffin in a death grip, wondering how something that looked so harmless could taste so much like betrayal.
After school, the gym smelled like sweat and rubber and faintly of popcorn from the concession stand. The scoreboard beeped as the coach reset it for another scrimmage. Sneakers squeaked as boys ran drills under flickering lights.
By the time practice ended, Jay’s shirt was damp and his legs felt like jelly. Coach blew his whistle.
“Good work today, boys,” he said. “Especially you, Ellis. Keep shooting like that and colleges are going to start watching sooner than you think.”
Jay grinned, chest swelling. “Thanks, Coach.”
Outside, the parking lot baked in the late-afternoon sun. Kids spilled out, reuniting with parents idling in Teslas and Toyotas and dusty pickup trucks. One by one, cars rolled away.
Mikey slung his duffel bag over his shoulder.
“You need a ride?” he asked. “My mom’s right there.”
“Nah,” Jay said, checking his phone. 4:32. “My mom’s coming. She promised.”
“All right, man.” Mikey bumped his fist. “Hit me up on Discord later.”
“Bet.”
The lot thinned out. The breeze picked up. Jay shot a quick text.
Where u at?
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. A call came in.
“Hey, baby,” Mom said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” he repeated. “You were supposed to pick me up twenty minutes ago. It’s 4:50.”
“Oh my gosh,” she said. “Is it already? I must’ve lost track of time. Again. I’m at the nail salon. My polish was chipping.”
“Seriously?” he said. “I’m tired. I’ve been playing ball for two hours. I haven’t eaten anything.”
“You’ll survive,” she said, echoing his words from the day before. “Look, it’s not that far. You can walk. Get some fresh air. Builds character. And hey, I’ll stop and grab Chick-fil-A for you on my way home to make up for it. Okay? Nuggets, fries, milkshake. The works.”
He hesitated.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But that spicy deluxe better be waiting.”
“Promise,” she said. “Love you.”
The line clicked dead.
Jay jammed his phone in his pocket and started walking.
Every step home felt longer than it was. Past the strip mall and the car wash. Past the gas station with the flickering sign. Past neighbors’ yards glowing with holiday cheer. The sun dipped lower. His stomach growled.
By the time he pushed open their front door at 5:30, he was sweaty and starving.
He sniffed.
Chicken.
He spotted the Chick-fil-A bag on the coffee table and lunged for it.
“Finally,” he muttered. “I’m—”
Empty. Completely empty. All that remained was a smear of sauce on the inside of the box and a stray fry crumb.
Mom sat on the couch, licking salt off her fingers.
“Hi, honey,” she said brightly. “How was practice?”
“You ate my food?” Jay said, incredulous. “You said you were bringing Chick-fil-A for me.”
“I did,” she said. “I brought it home. I just… forgot it was for you and not me. I must’ve lost track of time and hunger.”
He stared at her like she’d just confessed to arson.
“You are joking.”
“Don’t worry,” she added, standing. “I’ve got something for you.”
She walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a glass container. Inside, something green and lumpy sat looking sad.
“This better be good,” he muttered as she handed it to him.
He peeled back the lid.
Broccoli. A big pile of steamed broccoli, someone’s idea of health. Maybe from her pre-shift meal.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “How in the world did it go from Chick-fil-A… to this monstrosity?”
“You hate broccoli,” she said thoughtfully. “I know. Kind of like how you apparently hate sprinkles. Funny. I didn’t find that out until I made three dozen cookies without you.”
He grimaced. “I’m not eating this.”
“Then make yourself something,” she said. “PB&J. Mac and cheese. You know how. Technically, you don’t need my help.”
“That is messed up,” he said. “If I starve to death, it’ll be your fault.”
She laughed. “If you starve to death with that pantry, I’ve failed on many levels. Oh, and about Chick-fil-A after your game tomorrow?”
His eyes lit up.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “I promise.”
He didn’t trust promises anymore. But he still hoped.
That’s the messed up thing about hope. It lingers, even after broccoli.
Game day felt like the biggest day of Jay’s life.
The bleachers shook with noise. Parents in Bookside hoodies held homemade signs. The California flag hung limp on the wall, next to a faded American flag left over from some long-ago assembly.
The scoreboard glowed: BOOKSIDE 42, VISITORS 44. Seven seconds left. Fourth quarter.
Coach huddled the team together.
“All right, listen up,” he said. “We’re down two, seven seconds on the clock. We need a turnover and a quick bucket. Mikey, you’re inbound. Jay, I want you aggressive. Hands high. Don’t press number five, he’s their best shooter. Force the ball to the corner.”
Jay tried to listen, but his eyes kept scanning the stands.
Row one. Row two. Row three.
She wasn’t there.
His chest tightened.
She never misses my games.
“What’s wrong?” Mikey whispered.
“Nothing,” Jay lied.
He swallowed hard and turned back to Coach.
“Bookside on three,” Coach shouted. “One, two, three—”
“Bookside!” they yelled.
The whistle blew. The ball was checked in. The gym roared.
Jay pressed up on his man, hands out, sneakers squeaking. The visitor’s guard panicked, made a bad pass. Mikey intercepted like a hawk.
“Yo!” he shouted, flinging the ball forward.
For one impossible moment, everything slowed. The ball floated. Jay saw it leave Mikey’s hand, saw the orange arc, felt the thud as it smacked into his palms.
He didn’t think about where his mom was. He didn’t think about unwrapped presents or cold broccoli. He thought about the basket.
He took one dribble, planted his feet, and let it fly.
The ball sailed through the filtered gym light.
Swish.
Buzzer.
The gym exploded. His teammates tackled him. Kids jumped in the stands. Coach hugged him so hard his lungs protested.
“That’s my man!” Coach yelled, pounding his back. “That’s how you show up!”
Jay, breathless, looked up once more at the stands.
Still no mom.
The glow of the win dimmed at the edges.
“Guess she really didn’t come,” he murmured as he and Mikey walked toward the locker room. His voice sounded smaller than he meant it to.
“You sure?” Mikey asked. “Sometimes my mom sits way up at the top.”
Jay shook his head. “She promised,” he said. “And she broke it. Now I know how it feels, huh?”
Mikey didn’t say anything. He just clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Maybe she had a good reason,” he offered.
“Or maybe she’s just tired of caring more about showing up than I do,” Jay muttered.
He headed toward the door, shoulders slumped, feeling like the victory had been partly stolen.
“Maybe you should call her,” Mikey called after him. “Say sorry. For the cookies. And the decorations. And everything.”
“Yeah,” Jay said quietly. “Maybe I should.”
He dug for his phone, already composing an apology in his head.
And nearly dropped it when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“You don’t have to call,” his mom said. “You can say it in person.”
He spun around.
She stood by the entrance, still in scrubs, her hair pulled back, a baseball cap pulled low. She was holding a video camera, the red light off now, but still warm from recording.
“You were here?” he asked.
“Whole game,” she said. “In disguise. Thought if you saw me, the lesson wouldn’t land.”
“What lesson?” he asked, confused and relieved all at once.
“What it feels like,” she said gently, “to think someone important doesn’t keep their promises. To think someone who always shows up just… didn’t.”
He looked at her. At the worry lines around her eyes. At the pride shining brighter than any scoreboard.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “For the cookies. For the decorations. For the wrapping. For leaving you to do everything alone. You just wanted to hang out with me and I was acting like it was an obligation. I get it now. Showing up matters. Even for small stuff. Especially for small stuff.”
She smiled, eyes softening.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “Not just because you hit that shot. Because you finally see it.”
He laughed weakly. “You really made me walk home.”
“I did,” she said. “Watching you eat broccoli might’ve been the highlight of my week.”
“Low blow,” he said. “You know I hate broccoli.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, looping an arm around his shoulders. “So. Game-winning hero. You ready for Chick-fil-A? Like I promised?”
His stomach growled on cue.
“Wait,” he said, suddenly suspicious. “Are you actually going to…?”
“I already went,” she said, holding up a familiar red-and-white bag. “Got it before the game so I wouldn’t ‘lose track of time.’ No salads involved. Just nuggets. Fries. Oreo shake.”
He gaped at her.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe you’re the real MVP.”
They walked together toward the parking lot, the winter sun dipping behind the palm trees, the air cooling as California evenings do.
Just as they were about to cross, a young man in a faded hoodie and worn-out shoes jogged toward them from the hospital across the street, clutching his phone like it was a lifeline.
“Excuse me,” he said, breathless. “You’re Jay’s mom, right? Nurse Ellis?”
Ashley blinked. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“I’m Benny,” he said. “Miss Gretchen’s son. My mom showed me a picture of you once. Said you brought cookies and sunshine.”
“I’m glad you came to see her,” Ashley said. “She’s been waiting for your call.”
He swallowed hard. “I messed up,” he admitted. “I kept putting it off. Work, friends, games. I just… lost track of time. And then I heard what you said.”
“What I said?” she asked.
“About how important it is to keep your promises,” he said. “About showing up. I heard you in the hallway while you were talking to another nurse. I realized if something happened to my mom and I didn’t even make the time to call…” His voice cracked.
Jay looked between them, the weight of his own broken promises still heavy in his chest.
“You should go up,” Ashley said gently. “She’ll be so happy to see you.”
He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Take it from me, man,” Jay said quietly as Benny turned toward the sliding hospital doors. “Don’t wait. In real life, you don’t get extra levels.”
Benny gave him a shaky smile. “You’re right,” he said. “Nice game, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Jay said. “Nice… choice. Catching up to your mom before it was too late.”
Ashley watched Benny disappear into the fluorescent glow, then turned back to her son.
“See?” she said softly. “You’re not the only one learning how to show up.”
He nodded.
“Hey, Mom?” he asked as they reached the car. “On your next day off, wanna help me redo the decorations? Together? I was thinking we could put up lights outside, too. Like a whole Hollywood winter wonderland. Make the house look like the best one on the block.”
She grinned. “That sounds amazing,” she said. “As long as you don’t abandon me halfway through for a superhero movie.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, raising his right hand.
“You were never a scout,” she reminded him.
“Okay, gamer’s honor,” he corrected. “Which is way more serious. Cross my heart this time.”
She tossed him the Chick-fil-A bag. “We’ll see,” she said.
He caught it, the warmth seeping into his fingers, the smell of fried chicken mingling with the cool night air and the faint, distant sound of a crowd still cheering in his ears.
In a country where people raced from task to task, hustling for paychecks and chasing Wi-Fi signals, where kids juggled school and sports and screens, the simple act of showing up—in a hospital room, at a basketball game, in a cramped living room with tinsel and tape—was starting to feel like its own kind of superpower.
And for the first time in a long time, Jay Ellis was ready to use it.
