Three days later, Dr. Shah called.
My mother was upstairs.
My father was in the yard pretending leaves mattered.
Owen had just arrived with soup because apparently he had decided support people brought soup.
My phone rang.
Dr. Shah’s name flashed across the screen.
The room narrowed.
Owen saw my face.
He set the soup down.
“Answer it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t hear it again.”
He stepped closer but did not touch me.
“Then I’ll hear it with you.”
I put the phone on speaker.
Dr. Shah’s voice filled the kitchen.
“Emily, I have your pathology review.”
I gripped the counter.
My knees nearly failed.
Owen’s hand hovered near my elbow, waiting for permission.
I nodded.
He steadied me.
Dr. Shah continued.
“The original diagnosis was partially correct. There are malignant cells present.”
My mother came halfway down the stairs and stopped.
My father appeared at the back door.
“But,” Dr. Shah said, “the spread pattern is not what your first team believed. Some lesions they interpreted as metastatic disease appear inflammatory, not malignant. We need additional testing, but this may be treatable with an aggressive combination approach.”
I could not understand her.
The words came like birds hitting glass.
Partially correct.
Not what they believed.
Inflammatory.
Treatable.
Aggressive.
Combination.
My father whispered, “What does that mean?”
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