The day my mother began chemotherapy was the same day my father decided he was done being part of our family. I was fourteen. My younger brother Jason was eight. At that age, you don’t fully understand what cancer means, but you understand fear. You understand the way a house feels different when something is wrong. That day, the air felt heavier, quieter, like everything was waiting for something to break. Mom was upstairs in her bedroom, wrapped in blankets despite the warm afternoon. It was only her second round of chemo, but she already looked smaller, weaker, as if...
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