“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.
Daniel squeezed my knee beneath the table. Dad stayed quiet, distracted by his phone.
Three days later, Dad gathered us in the living room.
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