My sister moved her housewarming party to the same day as my daughter’s funeral. She called it a minor event. Our parents defended her.
The next time they saw me, it was already too late. I held my daughter’s hand while the machines beeped their steady rhythm. Grace was 3 years old, and her fingers were so small they barely wrapped around my thumb.
The pediatric oncology wards smelled like antiseptic and artificial hope. And I had memorized every crack in the ceiling tiles above her bed. “Mommy, can we go to the park when I feel better?” Grace whispered, her voice scratchy from the breathing tube they had removed that morning.
“Absolutely, sweetheart,” I said, brushing her thin hair back from her forehead. “We’ll go on the swings just like before.”
Grace smiled, and for a moment I could pretend that the cancer ravaging her tiny body was just a nightmare I would wake from. But the doctors had been clear during their last meeting with me.
Stage four neuroblastoma. The experimental treatment had failed. We were looking at weeks now.
Maybe days. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
Nothing mattered except this moment. This hand in mine. This precious child who had turned my world from black and white into brilliant color the moment she was born.
The phone buzzed again. Again. “You can check it, Mommy,” Grace said.
“I’m okay.”
I pulled out my phone, expecting messages from my supervisor at the community health clinic where I worked as a nurse. Instead, I saw 17 messages from my sister, Vanessa. The first one made my stomach drop.
Meera, I know this is hard for you, but I really need you to be there for my housewarming party. I finally bought my dream house. I stared at the screen.
Vanessa knew Grace was dying. She had visited exactly once in the past six months, staying for 20 minutes before complaining about hospital parking fees. I scrolled through the other messages.
Each one was more insistent than the last. Mom and Dad are flying in for it. Everyone will be there.
I’m thinking June 15th. Does that work for you? You’ve been so focused on Grace.
I know you need this distraction. June 15th. I looked at my daughter, watched her chest rise and fall with effort.
The doctors had given us until mid-June at best. My sister wanted to celebrate her new house during the time I would be burying my child. I did not respond.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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