Chemotherapy started on a Thursday.
Clara insisted on walking into the oncology wing herself.
No wheelchair.
No dramatic goodbyes.
No tears.
She wore jeans and a loose sweater, hair pulled back like she was going to class instead of to poison her own blood.
Daniel walked beside her.
Too close.
Like if he blinked, she might disappear.
Lina followed a few steps behind, one hand resting unconsciously at the bottom of her stomach. The baby had been restless all morning. Or maybe that was just her nerves translating into movement.
Maya was quiet. For once.
Inside the treatment room, everything was clean and bright and cruelly normal. Recliner chairs. IV poles. A television mounted on the wall that no one would watch.
The nurse explained the process again.
“First infusion will take
