I exhaled a long breath, and a tear slipped down my cheek. Embarrassment washed over me—for reasons I didn’t understand.
“How long?” I asked, eyes down, unable to look at her.
I heard her swallow hard. “That’s unknown at this time. It could be up to five years. It could be a year. It could be as little as a month. We need to run more tests to determine how aggressive it is and what we can do to slow its growth. We’ll know more once the lab results are back.”
Reading the mood of the room, she waved off the extra staff and nodded to my mom, silently handing over the reins.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the doctor said before slipping out of the room.
My mother stepped forward and took my hand. Now that I really looked at her, I saw how stressed she was. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face puffy from crying. But she was holding it in now—for me. Keeping it together so I wouldn’t fall apart.
I wanted to be strong for her. I really did.
But I just couldn’t.
A full, heavy stream of tears fell down my face like a dam finally breaking after holding back too much pressure until the water spilled out with a force, bursting free. But there was nothing freeing about this moment. It was catastrophic.
“M-mom,” I said, my voice cracking, “I don’t wanna die.”
She threw her arms around me and pulled me into the world’s tightest hug. I came undone in a way I’d never allowed myself to before. I was always the happy one, the one who kept himself together. The optimistic brother. Always a shade brighter than realistic.
With her mouth buried in my hair, she whispered, “We’re going to figure this out, Ash. There will never be a time I give up on you, okay? We’re going to fight this.”
Her optimism was unlike any other. But one thing my mom didn’t do was make false promises. She wouldn’t say I wasn’t going to die—she just couldn’t.
She was my mom, but at her core, she was a social worker. And social workers didn’t lie. Not even to their children who just got a terminal diagnosis.
With her small stature, she climbed up next to me on the hospital bed and pulled me into her arms. We lay there for what felt like hours as she held me.
A nurse came in, one who looked like she recognized me. “Hey, Asher, good to see you up. Can I get you something to eat?”
The mention of food snapped me out of the fog. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then. The nurse noticed me hesitating, probably thinking through what the hospital even had to offer, and encouragingly offered, “You name it, we’ll get it for you. Sky’s the limit.”
My mom squeezed my shoulder. “How about that pad thai you like?”
I smiled, grateful she could think clearly when I couldn’t.
“Yeah…that. If that’s okay?”
The nurse gave my arm a gentle squeeze—an act of empathy.
“Anything you want, it’s yours.”
Her smile was kind, but it carried something underneath—like she knew I could have anything I wantedbecause I was dying.
And she knew it.
Fuck.
It was hitting me again.
Before I could let the tears return, I turned my head away and stared at the TV in the corner looking for a distraction, something,anythingelse.
Looking back at my mom, a memory surfaced.
“Did I get the goal?” I asked.
She shifted slightly, puzzled at first, and then her expression softened as she remembered. I had been lining up for that breakaway right before everything went black.
