The room goes silent.
I still can’t look at Harper. Can’t turn around. Can’t do anything except stare at Mom’s face and watch more tears slide down her cheeks and feel my entire world crumbling into ash.
“We’ll fight,” Silas continues, and now his voice wavers. Just slightly. Just enough. “But?—”
“But what?” Harper demands. “But what? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Harper—” Mom starts.
“No!” Harper’s voice is rising now, getting sharp and jagged. “What does that mean? You’re gonna be fine, right? You beat it before. You can beat it again. Right?”
Silence.
That’s the answer.
The silence.
“Right?” Harper says again, quieter this time. Pleading.
“We don’t know yet,” Mom says, and she’s using her mom voice now. The one that’s supposed to be comforting. The one that’s supposed to make everything okay. “They want me to come in after Christmas for more tests.Another biopsy. More imaging. We won’t know the full extent until?—”
“The full extent.” I finally find my voice, and it comes out flat. Dead. “What’s the full extent right now? What did they see?”
Mom looks at me, and I watch her debate whether to tell me the truth or feed me a comfortable lie.
“Multiple nodules,” she says finally. “In both lungs.”
Both lungs.
The room tilts.
My brain immediately starts calculating:
Stage 4 lung cancer survival rate: 5-10% at five years.
Recurrent lung cancer survival rate: even lower.
Multiple nodules in both lungs: metastatic disease.
Metastatic disease: terminal.
No. Stop. Stop calculating. Stop?—
But I can’t stop.
My brain is a machine, and the machine won’t turn off.
Time since last remission: 60 months. 1,825 days.
Average time to recurrence: 24-36 months.
She made it past that. She was supposed to be safe.
She was supposed to?—
I’m twelve years old again, sitting in Dr. Patel’s office while she explained staging and treatment plans and survival rates. I’m twelve years old, trying to understand words like “metastasis” and “prognosis” and “palliative care.”
I’m twelve years old, and my mom might be dying.