“We’ll tell everyone once the doctor confirms which stage I’m at,” I said quietly. “No need to scare anyone yet.”
She nodded, but I could see the tension in her face.
The truth was that I was scared.
Terrified.
I just refused to show it.
Not yet.
I needed to be strong for her.
For the children.
So when we got home, I forced myself into normal routines as if nothing had changed.
“Let me help you with your homework,” I told Lucas that evening.“Let’s start with math,” I said, pulling a chair beside him at the table.
The numbers on the page barely registered in my mind, but helping him focus on fractions and equations gave my thoughts something else to cling to.
Nearby, Oreo lay stretched across the floor while Milo curled lazily beside Emma’s feet, purring softly every time she reached down to pet him. Even the familiar sight of the two animals peacefully sharing the same space brought a sense of comfort to the heaviness inside my chest.
After we finished, I played with Emma for a while, lifting her into the air and making her giggle before helping set the table for dinner.
Every small, ordinary moment felt precious now.
That night, however, I tossed and turned for hours.
At some point, I rolled over and looked at Jiya lying beside me. Her face was turned away, but even in the dim light I could see the damp marks on the pillow beneath her cheek. She must have cried when she thought I was asleep.
My chest constricted.
Carefully, I slipped out of bed and went downstairs.
The house was quiet and dark as I opened my laptop at the kitchen table.
I needed answers.
I needed to understand what I was facing and accept the reality of it.
So I began searching.
Stage one.
Stage two.
Stage three.
Stage four.
Each page I read ended the same way—with grim statistics and words that felt cold.
The symptoms listed on those pages matched my own experiences too closely.
I had noticed all of them.
I just had not taken them seriously.
