On day twenty-eight, the induction phase ended. I was officially in remission. Dr. Patterson walked into my room with a broad smile.
“You’re responding beautifully to the treatment, Sarah,” he announced. “We can move to outpatient care now. You won’t have to live here anymore.”
“Where will she go?” Rachel asked instantly. She was supposed to be off duty hours ago, but she had stayed, hovering near the door.
Margaret stepped forward, clutching her clipboard. “Foster care. I have a family lined up. They’re experienced with medical needs.”
My stomach plummeted. A foster family. Strangers. More sterile environments.
“I want to take her,” Rachel said.
The room froze. Everyone turned to look at the night nurse.
“I want to foster her,” Rachel continued, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’m already approved. I did all the state training two years ago. I can do this. I want to do this.”
Margaret sighed, exchanging a weary glance with Dr. Patterson. “Rachel, this is a massive, long-term commitment. Two more years of intensive chemo, then years of monitoring.”
“I know,” Rachel said, her eyes locking onto mine. “I want to do it. If Sarah wants to come home with me.”
I stared at her. For the first time in a month, I saw a future that didn’t look like a black hole. But as Margaret began to flip through her massive binder of regulations, a sharp knock at the door interrupted us, bringing news that would threaten to derail everything.
The paperwork took an agonizing week, but the bureaucratic hurdles were cleared. On November 15th, exactly one month after my diagnosis, Rachel packed my single duffel bag of belongings into the trunk of her beat-up Honda Civic and drove me to Maple Street.
Her house was small, a modest three-bedroom with peeling paint on the porch, but the moment I stepped inside, it felt like a sanctuary.
“This is your room,” Rachel said, pushing open a door on the second floor.
I stopped in my tracks. The walls were painted a soft, soothing lavender—a color I had mentioned loving in passing during a late-night Go Fish game. A brand-new bed sat in the corner with a fluffy purple comforter. A desk faced the window, and on it sat a framed photograph of Rachel and me, taken in the hospital. We were both smiling.
“Welcome home, Sarah,” she whispered.
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