She takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cold, the skin translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface. “Sweetheart, we’ve had this conversation. I’ve made my peace with—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, an edge of desperation in my voice. “Please don’t say you’re okay with dying when there’s still a chance of beating this thing.”
“A very small chance,” she corrects gently. “At a very big price.”
“I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
“Rowan Elizabeth.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength. “Look at me.”
I do, though it takes every ounce of will I possess not to crumble.
“You have been taking care of me since you were a child,” she says. “You have put your life on hold, worked jobs you hated, sacrificed everything to keep me going. And I love you more than words can express
