“Can you pick me up early tomorrow?”
“Is Mom coming home tonight?”
“Why is Dad being weird?”
Nothing was fine, but they didn’t know that yet.
The diagnosis came on a Tuesday. I remember because Mom made pancakes that morning and apologized for burning them.
“I’ll do better tomorrow,” she said, forcing a smile.
By Friday, we were in a dull office with beige walls while a doctor spoke words I barely understood but instantly despised. Cancer. Aggressive. Treatment.
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