My mother screamed.
My father cried.
Owen sat down in the exam room and covered his face.
I stared at Dr. Shah.
“Say it again.”
She smiled.
“Remission.”
I laughed.
Then I sobbed.
Then I asked, “Can I have pizza?”
Dr. Shah said, “Yes, Emily. You can have pizza.”
I looked at Owen.
He was still crying into his hands.
“Support person,” I said.
He looked up.
“Yes?”
“We need pizza.”
He laughed so hard Dr. Shah cried too.
Life after remission was strange.
People think survival is the end of the story.
It is not.
Survival is another country.
You enter with no map.
You are grateful and angry and tired and afraid to make plans because plans once betrayed you.
Your hair grows back different.
Your body carries scars.
Your calendar fills with follow-ups.
Every headache becomes a question.
Every pain becomes a courtroom.
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