The doctor hesitated.
“Months… possibly longer.”
Months.
I looked at Maya, and suddenly every moment replayed in my head—the quiet dinners, the oversized sweaters, the way she avoided eye contact.
She wasn’t being dramatic.
She was suffering.
The guilt that followed
I don’t remember standing up.
I don’t remember what I said.
All I remember is the weight of it.
I had seen it. I had felt it.
And still… I waited.
Because someone else told me not to worry.
Because I didn’t want to believe something could be wrong.
Because it was easier to doubt her than to face the possibility that something serious was happening.
That realization doesn’t leave you.
It settles in your chest and stays there.
What happened next
Everything moved quickly after that.
More tests. Specialists. Words I had never needed to understand before.
They talked about treatment plans. About options. About urgency.
But all I could see was my daughter honte stupi sitting on that hospital bed—small, tired, scared.
Not a teenager being “dramatic.”
A child who had been asking for help.
And her father…
I called Robert.
