He shifts in his sleep, muttering about superheroes and dinosaurs. I breathe him in: syrupy pancakes, clean laundry, the smell of a boy who is still untouched by grief or fear. I smell like the hospital—antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, chemo clinging to me no matter how many showers I take. I hope he never notices. I hope he remembers me as warmth and pancakes, bedtime stories and laughter, not as sickness and fear.
This morning, while building a Lego tower with him, he asked softly, “Mommy, will you be there when I graduate?”
I froze. The acid rose in my throat. My hands hovered over the red and blue bricks, unsure where to place the next one. I forced a smile. “Of course, baby. I’ll be there. I’ll wear my sparkliest dress and cheer the loudest.”
I lied. I will not be there.
Mark, my husband, is steadfast, but human. He panics at scraped knees and worries when Nolan cries. I leave him notes, tiny instructions for the inevitable: “When he goes quiet, just sit. Make grilled cheese. Wait.” “Thunder is just angels bowling.” I try to create a guide to survive me, a manual for when I cannot.
Sliding out of the bed, I feel my joints pop, stiff as though I were ninety instead of thirty-six. The hallway mirror shows a stranger staring back. Bald, fragile, soft beanie covering what remains of my hair. Nolan calls me “Super Mom.” He smiles when he sees the beanie. At night, when it comes off, the stark truth stares back: the illness is devouring time, second by second.
I step into the kitchen. The coffee machine gurgles like a tiny, persistent heart. Nolan’s pancakes sit on the counter, butter melting into the golden surface. I taste the sweetness and remember normal mornings, before fear became a permanent resident in our house.
