Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Coming?” I hold out a hand.
She’s expressionless. When she glances up, her vacant eyes find mine. Without taking my hand, she stands, and we follow the doctor.
We schedule future appointments.
We drive home in silence.
My mom greets us as soon as we open the door. “How did it go?” she asks, wringing her hands together.
I can only imagine what she must be feeling. No parent wants to lose a child.
“Well, the cancer has spread again, but I’m lined up to start chemo after Christmas. So, all we can do is take it one day at a time.”
Lips pressed together, she nods several times, tears building in her eyes.
I hug her. “It’s not the end of the world,” I whisper.
She sniffles. “M-my boy. You are my world.”
Amelia wipes her eyes and jogs up the stairs.
As my mom pulls away, she digs out a tissue from her pocket and wipes her nose. “Why don’t you go away again? Whatever you did before worked, right?”
“It’s not sustainable. It’s not fair to leave Amelia and Astrid again. And for how long? This is my life here. I’ll do what I can here.”
“I hate this.” She blots the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t exactly love it, but it’s part of life, and I’m at peace with whatever happens. I will enjoy Christmas with my family and deal with everything else as it comes. One day at a time.”
She gives me another hug. “I love you. I love you more than anyone. And I can’t have you leave this world before me. Do you hear me?”
I can’t fucking speak, so I nod.
When she drags herself away and the door closes behind her, I take a deep breath and climb the stairs.
“Hey, sunshine. Can we talk?”
Astrid sets her book aside and sits up straight on the edge of her bed. “About what?”
Amelia’s hand rests on my back for a second, and then her fingers interlace with mine.
“My cancer is back. And this time, I’m going to have a special treatment called chemotherapy to slow its growth. And we don’t know if it will work, but we’re going to try.”
She frowns. “Are you going to die?”
Amelia squeezes my hand just before I release hers to make my way to Astrid. I kneel in front of her, resting my hands on her legs. “I don’t know, baby girl. And I know that’s not what you want to hear. I wish I could promise you more, but I can’t. But whatever you feel about my cancer is okay. If you’re sad or angry, that’s okay. If you feel confused or scared, that’s okay, too. I don’t want you to hide your feelings.”
Crocodile tears slide down her cheeks in a blink, and her lips quiver. “I d-don’t want y-you to die.”
I wrap her in my arms, kissing her head over and over. “I know,” I manage to squeak two words while I pray for time to slow down so I can just hold my little girl as long as possible.
Amelia sits next to Astrid and hugs both of us, her sobs leaking out despite how hard I know she’s trying to be strong.
Some things in life just hurt, and there’s no way to acknowledge them without the pain. Disease sucks. Dying sucks. And what hurts the most is knowing my part will be the easiest.
There’s nothing easier than not existing.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I FORGOT TO DREAM THIS BIG.
Scottie
“Ta-da!” Koen opens the bathroom door.
The tiled shower has been done for a month, but my big soaker was on backorder.
“Merry Christmas.” He takes Penelope from me.
She always looks extra small in his hands. And I love nothing more than seeing her nestled against his bare chest.
“Did you wake up early to finish this?” I step onto the tiled floor, my nightie soaked from leaky breasts. I know I smell of sour milk.
“I might have. So why don’t you take a nice warm bath while Penelope and I make breakfast and see if Santa came last night. Oh, and I got a late-night text from Price wishing us an early Merry Christmas. Evidently, I’m not the only one who didn’t sleep last night.”
I plug the drain and turn on the water to fill the tub next to a window overlooking our new wooded lot just a few blocks from the shipping container house we’re renting out as a vacation home per Price’s suggestion.
“I think his cancer’s back. I recently messaged him.”
“Is that what he said?”
“He alluded to it.” I peel off my nightie and hide in the toilet stall to remove my postpartum diaper, as I call it.
“Should we expect a guest soon who needs to walk in our grass and drink juice until he’s orange?”
I flush the toilet and step into the bathtub. My eyes nearly roll back in my head; it feels so good. “I’m afraid not. I think he’s staying for Amelia and Astrid.”