The cold tiles felt like ice under my bare feet as I made my way downstairs, each step sending a fresh wave of pain through my head. The chemo was working its way through my body, and the usual smell of coffee made me want to throw up.
Dad and Pops were at the kitchen table, surrounded by a sea of newspapers. Bernard sat patiently by Dad’s side, his tail thumping a steady rhythm against the floor.
“Morning, Sloane,” Pops greeted, his voice warm like a hug. “Did you sleep well?”
I forced a smile, the effort sending a wave of nausea through me. “Not really,” I mumbled, sinking into the chair next to Bernard. He rested his head in my lap, his soft fur a welcome comfort against the nausea churning in my stomach.
“Rough night?” Dad asked, concern etched into his forehead. He cupped my cheek
