The diagnosis came wrapped in fluorescent light and practiced compassion.
Dr. Meyer didn't fumble. He didn't stutter.
Just delivered it clean:
“Advanced-stage cancer. Inoperable. Slow progression, but terminal."
Diana blinked once. Then asked, “How long?"
“Months. A year, at most—with treatment."
“And without?"
He hesitated. “Less. But you'd remain sharper longer. More functional."
She nodded.
He waited. “You'll want to talk to your family."
She smiled thinly. “That's not necessary."
---
Outside, she sat in her car and stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Same eyes. Same mouth. Same woman.
Only now, counting backward.
---
She told no one.
Not Daniel.
Not Elaine.
Not the firm.
She needed space between the truth and the grief it would cause.
Instead, she open
