I sat rigidly in a plastic chair outside my six-year-old daughter’s hospital room, staring at the pale tiles beneath my feet. Somewhere down the corridor, a machine beeped steadily. Nurses spoke in hushed voices. A cart squeaked past.
Then I heard Sophie laugh.
She was inside her room with my father, listening as he read one of her favorite stories. Her laughter was soft and breathless, but it still carried through the doorway.
That small, beautiful sound nearly destroyed me.
The doctor sat across from me with Sophie’s medical chart held tightly against his chest. His expression told me everything before he spoke.
“I wish I had better news,” he said gently. “The treatments are no longer working the way we hoped.”
My hands curled into fists in my lap.
“What does that mean?”
