Dr. Shah answered as if she heard him.
“It means I am not calling this terminal today.”
The kitchen disappeared.
My mother made a sound I had never heard from her before.
My father sat down hard on the nearest chair.
Owen closed his eyes.
I stood there with the phone in my shaking hand.
Not terminal today.
Not cured.
Not safe.
Not easy.
But not a coffin.
Not yet.
I started crying so hard I could not breathe.
Owen took the phone.
“Dr. Shah, this is Owen. She’s overwhelmed. Can your office send the next steps in writing?”
There was a pause.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
He ended the call.
Then I hit him.
Not hard.
A weak, ridiculous slap against his chest.
“You made me go.”
“Yes.”
“You arrogant, annoying, pushy stranger.”
“Yes.”
“You made me hope.”
His face changed.
Hope was the dangerous word.
He looked almost afraid of it.
“I know.”
“What if it still kills me?”
His voice softened.
“Then it kills you later than they tried to tell you.”
I broke then.
Completely.
He opened his arms only after I leaned forward.
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