Megan shrugged helplessly. “It’s not like we’re asking for cash.”
Before I could respond, small footsteps came down the hallway.
My six-year-old son, Ethan, walked into the living room holding a folded paper with both hands. He looked at me, then at them, and said in his quiet, careful voice:
“Mommy said to show you this if you ever ask for money.”
Their smiles froze before he even handed it over.
And when my mother opened the note and started reading, the color drained from her face.
For a moment, no one moved.
Ethan stood there in dinosaur pajamas, one sock half off his heel, waiting like he knew this mattered. Megan reached for the paper, but Mom pulled it back and read it under her breath.
It wasn’t a typical doctor’s note. It was printed on oncology letterhead, signed by my physician assistant, confirming that I was actively undergoing chemotherapy, unable to take on additional financial stress, and advised by my care team to avoid any new legal or financial obligations during treatment. At the bottom, in my own handwriting, I had added one final sentence:
If you are reading this, it means I was too sick or too tired to argue. The answer is no.
