Chapter 3 - FOURTEEN MONTHS OF HOPE
Margaret’s cancer was discovered during a routine examination.
The doctor spoke gently, but no amount of gentleness could soften the word.
Cancer.
For the next fourteen months, our lives became a calendar of treatments, scans, blood tests, consultations, and cautious hope.
Margaret faced each appointment with remarkable calm. She wore bright scarves, thanked every nurse, and carried peppermint candies in her handbag for children she met in the waiting room.
Daniel visited frequently during the first month.
He brought flowers, spoke with doctors, and promised to take over more responsibilities at the company.
Margaret glowed whenever he entered the room.
“I told you he would come through,” she said.
Then the visits became shorter.
He began checking his phone while she spoke.
Soon he sent Vanessa in his place.
Eventually, they both stopped coming.
Daniel always had a reason.
A meeting had run late.
Traffic was terrible.
A client needed him.
Vanessa was exhausted.
They had already made plans.
Margaret accepted every excuse.
During her sixth month of treatment, Daniel called while she was connected to an intravenous line.
I assumed he wanted to ask about her test results.
Instead, he needed her electronic signature for a transfer from a family investment account.
“It’s temporary,” he said through the speaker.
Margaret’s face tightened as another wave of nausea passed.
“How much?”
“Forty thousand.”
I reached for the phone.
“No.”
Daniel heard me.
“Dad, stay out of this.”
“She is receiving chemotherapy.”
“I’m talking to my mother.”
“You are asking your mother for money while poison is being pumped into her body to keep her alive.”
Margaret placed her hand over mine.
“Robert.”
She signed the transfer.
Daniel thanked her quickly and ended the call.
No question about the treatment.
No promise to visit.
No mention of love.
Margaret stared at the dark screen.
“He must be under pressure,” she said.
I walked into the corridor because I could not trust myself to answer.
That evening, I found her crying in the bathroom.
She claimed it was because of the pain.
I knew better.
Several weeks later, the doctors told us the treatment was no longer working.
Margaret listened without interruption.
“What happens now?” she asked.
The doctor explained that we could continue aggressive care, but the likely benefit was small. Hospice would focus on comfort and allow her to spend her remaining time at home.
On the drive back, Margaret watched trees pass outside the window.
“Do you think Daniel understands how serious this is?”
“He understands.”
“Maybe we have protected him too much.”
I glanced at her.
She gave me a sad smile.
“You have been waiting thirty years to hear me say that.”
“I would rather have been wrong.”
“So would I.”
She rested her hand on mine.
“I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left arguing about him.”
May you like
I promised we would not.
But as her world became smaller, the empty spaces Daniel left behind became impossible to ignore.
