***
Three weeks earlier, I was still pretending I could fix almost anything.
Dr. Bates had finished explaining Avery’s latest results when I opened my notebook.
That should’ve warned me.
“So what do we try now?”
He didn’t answer right away.
That silence frightened me more than anything he’d said.
“Leila,” he began gently, “the treatment hasn’t worked the way we’d hoped.”
“Then we change it. We find something else.”
“So what do we try now?”
“We’ll look at every reasonable option,” he said. “But we also have to weigh what another aggressive treatment could put Avery through.”
I tightened my fingers around my pen.
“You’re saying we stop?”
“I’m saying we don’t decide that today.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You’re saying we stop?”
“Go home with Avery. We’ll talk again soon.”
I hated not having a plan,
Outside, Avery sat in the waiting area reading a comic book.
She was ten and had been dealing with cancer for almost two years, but at that moment, she looked mostly annoyed with the vending machine.
“Go home with Avery. We’ll talk again soon.”
I pressed the back of my fingers against her forehead.
She looked up.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You have the tired nurse face on again.”
I pulled a smile across my face. “Sorry, baby. I’m just tired today.”
“What?”
Avery studied me. “What did Dr. Bates say?”
My grip tightened around her backpack. “We’ll talk at home.”
“Was it bad?”
I wasn’t ready to answer that.
“They need more time to decide what comes next.”
“So there isn’t a next thing yet?”
“We’ll talk at home.”
“Not yet.”
She reached for her backpack. “Then let me carry this.”
“You’re tired.”
“So are you.”
I almost argued.
Instead, I loosened my grip and handed it over.
“Then let me carry this.”
“Okay.”
Avery slipped it onto her shoulder.
“Can we still have pancakes?”
“Absolutely, honey. There are very few things pancakes can’t fix.”
***
That evening, I made chocolate-chip pancakes too big for the plates while we watched cartoons she’d loved when she was little.
I was done saying “maybe someday.”
“Can we still have pancakes?”
Then I straightened the fleece blanket across her legs.
“It was already straight,” Avery said.
“I know.”
“So why did you fix it?”
“Because I’m your mother, and sometimes I just need to do something with my hands.”
She watched me.
“So why did you fix it?”
“What did Dr. Bates say?”
I reached for my coffee.
“They’re figuring out what comes next.”
“Was it bad?”
“No. They’re just putting together our next plan, baby.”
The lie came too fast.
“What did Dr. Bates say?”
Avery’s face changed.
“Mom, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“The happy voice.”
“I don’t have a happy voice.”
“You do when you’re scared.”
“Mom, don’t do that.”
My throat tightened.
“We’ll figure it out.”
She kept looking at me.
Then she picked up her tablet and slid it across my lap.
“Can we sleep in a real castle just once?”
She showed me an old stone castle that had been turned into a hotel.
“Can we sleep in a real castle just once?”
“It’s only a few hours away.”
I found the price.
Avery saw my face.
“We don’t have to.”
I hated how quickly she said it. She was ten. She shouldn’t have been worrying about my savings.
“I’m done saying maybe someday.”
“It’s only a few hours away.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“One castle night, baby girl.”
I booked it before I could reconsider.
***
For the next few weeks, Avery talked about turrets, armor, secret doors, and whether castles still had messengers.
“They have email,” I told her.
“It ruins the vibe, Mom.”
“One castle night, baby girl.”
The day we arrived, Avery slept through most of the drive.
The second the towers came into view, Avery sat forward.
“Whoa.”
“Worth it?”
“Depends. Is there a dungeon?”
“No.”
“Worth it?”
“I’ve been misled.”
At the car, she grabbed her duffel before I could.
“I can carry my own bag.”
Three weeks earlier, I would’ve argued.
“All right. Ask if you need help.”
Halfway up the path, she stopped.
“I can carry my own bag.”
“You can take it now.”
I simply took the bag.
***
Inside, Dylan greeted us from behind the front desk.
“Welcome. You must be Leila and Avery.”
Avery stared at the staircase. “Is all of this real?”
“You can take it now.”
Dylan smiled. “Very real. The library is at the end of your hallway.”
Avery looked at me. “Can we go there first?”
“After we put our things down.”
“Promise?”
Lately, promises scared me.
“Yes. That one I can keep.”
“Can we go there first?”
Dylan handed me the room key, and Avery headed for the stairs.
***
That afternoon, we explored slowly, naming one stern portrait Lord Mustache before finding the library.
Avery ran her fingers along the shelves.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“If somebody left a secret letter here, do you think they’d keep it?”
Avery headed for the stairs.
I looked at her.
“What kind of secret letter?”
“Just a letter.”
“For who?”
“Someone.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What kind of secret letter?”
“Are you planning to steal all the letters in here, missy?”
“No. Yes. Probably,” she said, looking serious.
I laughed.
She turned toward the books.
I missed the clue completely.
“Are you planning to steal all the letters?”
***
That night, we ate cookies in bed and watched an old movie until Avery’s eyes started to close.
“You had fun today?” I asked.
She nodded. “Best day in a long time.”
The answer hit harder than she meant it to.
I pulled the comforter higher over her.
“It was already straight,” she murmured. “Mom.”
“Best day in a long time.”
I stopped.
She studied me for a second. “You don’t have to fix everything.”
Before I could answer, three knocks hit the door.
Midnight.
Dylan stood outside with a sealed envelope bearing my name.
“Ma’am, I was told to give you this only after midnight.”
“You don’t have to fix everything.”
I took it and closed the door.
Avery sat upright.
“Open it.”
The first line was in her handwriting.
“Mom, before you get mad, Dad helped me send this.”
I looked at her.
“Open it.”
“You wrote this?”
“Please keep reading.”
I did.
“I heard you talking to Dr. Bates. Not all of it. Enough.”
My hands began to shake.
“Avery, you weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Please keep reading.”
Her eyes held mine.
“Then when were you going to tell me?”
I opened my mouth.
“You called your dad about this?”
“I call Dad all the time, Mom.”
“Then when were you going to tell me?”
Matthew and I had been apart for years. He loved Avery, though fear had made him unreliable when she needed him. She had never stopped wanting her father in her life.
“You planned this with Dad and Dylan without telling me?”
Avery picked at a loose thread on the blanket.
“Dad only mailed it. I wrote everything.”
Matthew and I had been apart for years.
“Why didn’t you just give it to me?”
“Because you would’ve opened it early.”
I almost denied it.
She looked at me.
“Okay,” I admitted. “Probably.”
Avery pointed at the letter. “Keep reading.”
“Why didn’t you just give it to me?”
I lowered it instead.
“You could’ve talked to me.”
“I tried.”
Something in her voice made me stop.
“When?”
“The night I asked what happens if the medicine doesn’t work.”
“I tried.”
I remembered opening the freezer and asking whether she wanted chocolate or vanilla ice cream.
“I thought you needed cheering up.”
“I needed an answer.”
“I didn’t have one.”
“Then you could’ve said that.”
I sat beside her.
“I didn’t have one.”
Avery’s eyes stayed on the letter.
“I heard enough outside Dr. Bates’s room to know something changed,” she said. “Then you came out smiling too much.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t want you walking around scared.”
“I heard enough outside Dr. Bates’s room.”
“I was already scared, Mom. I get scared when my head hurts or every time I cough.”
I unfolded the letter again.
“The first thing I want is for you to stop saying we’ll figure it out when you don’t know.”
“I say that because I want you to feel safe.”
“I do feel safe.”
“I was already scared, Mom.”
“Then why does it bother you?”
“Because sometimes I can tell you’re scared too, and then I think maybe it’s worse than you’re saying.”
I looked away.
“I’d thought hiding my fear protected her.”
Instead, I’d left her guessing.
Avery pulled her knees closer.
“Then why does it bother you?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She hesitated.
“Does dying hurt?”
For a second, I couldn’t speak.
Every instinct told me to make the answer smaller.
“Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Her face tightened.
“Does Dr. Bates?”
“He’ll know more than I do. We can ask him together.”
“Even if the answer isn’t nice?”
I swallowed.
“Does Dr. Bates?”
“Even then.”
Avery nodded.
“Okay.”
I read the second request.
“Let me choose some things.”
“What things?”
“Let me choose some things.”
“Like who visits when I feel awful. Whether people keep whispering when I’m right there.”
I’d asked relatives to lower their voices more than once.
“And I want to carry my own bag when I can.”
“That bag nearly defeated you.”
“That’s different. I decided when I was done.”
“That bag nearly defeated you.”
“What else?”
Avery thought.
“If I’m tired, I’ll tell you. If I want help, I’ll ask. You don’t have to decide before I do.”
I nodded slowly.
“All right.”
“Really?”
“What else?”
“I’ll probably forget sometimes.”
“You probably will.”
“Then remind me.”
Avery gave me a small nod.
I read the final request.
“Pick one thing you’re going to do someday that isn’t for me.”
“Then remind me.”
My throat closed.
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s only one thing.”
“I don’t want a someday that doesn’t have you in it.”
Her eyes filled.
“I can’t.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I put the letter down.
“I can’t do this part.”
I reached for her blanket out of habit.
Avery caught my wrist.
“Please don’t fix it.”
“I can’t do this part.”
I stopped.
Then, for once, I left the blanket exactly where it was.
For nearly two years, my hands had fixed whatever I could reach.
Avery was asking me to leave something alone.
“I need water.”
Avery glanced at the full glass beside the bed.
My hands had fixed whatever I could reach.
I moved to the window instead.
Avery eventually lay down, but I stayed awake. When her breathing softened, I picked up the letter again.
One final line sat beneath her requests.
“You don’t have to promise you’ll be happy. I just want you to want something.”
I read it until the words stopped blurring.
I’d spent two years worrying that Avery might lose hope.
“I just want you to want something.”
I hadn’t noticed she was watching me lose mine.
Before sunrise, she stirred.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
She pushed herself up. “Can we go back to the library?”
My first instinct was to tell her she needed rest.
“I’m here.”
I stopped myself.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We walked there in sweaters and socks.
Avery curled into the window seat, and I sat beside her.
“You were mad last night,” she said.
“I was scared. At what you were asking me to imagine.”
I stopped myself.
She picked at her sleeve.
“Did you think of something?”
I nodded.
“I used to take pottery classes.”
Avery’s mouth twitched.
“Did you think of something?”
“To make another one of those blue bowls?”
“Unfortunately.”
“The weird one?”
“That’s the one.”
“Are you going back because I asked?”
I shook my head.
“Because I miss it.”
“The weird one?”
Avery nodded.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared too,” I said.
Avery squeezed my hand.
“Me too.”
“I’m scared too.”
***
At checkout, Dylan took our room key.
“I need to settle the balance,” I said.
He checked the screen.
“There’s nothing due.”
“There should be.”
“The room was covered yesterday.”
“There’s nothing due.”
“By who?”
He looked again.
“Matthew.”
I turned toward Avery.
She stared at the floor.
“You knew?”
I turned toward Avery.
“Dad said he wanted to help.”
Outside, I texted Matthew.
“Thank you for helping her with the letter. And the room.”
His reply came quickly.
“She asked me.”
“Dad said he wanted to help.”
I typed back:
“Sometimes she won’t.”
After a moment, he answered:
“Then tell me when she needs me, Leila. Tell me when you need help.”
It didn’t repair everything between us.
But for once, I didn’t reject help just because I hadn’t been the one to arrange it.
“Sometimes she won’t.”
***
Three weeks later, Avery and I sat with Dr. Bates again.
He explained the choices ahead, then looked at me.
“What questions do you have?”
I almost answered first.
Instead, I turned to Avery.
“What questions do you have?”
“Your turn.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“Really.”
Avery looked at Dr. Bates. “Will the next medicine make my hair fall out again?”
“It might, Avery.”
“Will I feel sick?”
“It might, Avery.”
“Possibly. If we use it, we’ll help with that.”
She nodded, thinking.
“Can I still go places when I feel okay?”
Dr. Bates smiled gently. “That’s something we’ll work around whenever we can.”
Avery looked at me.
“If we use it, we’ll help with that.”
Normally, I would’ve already been planning schedules.
Instead, I asked, “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll make room for it.”
***
That Saturday, I kept my promise and went back to pottery.
When I brought home my crooked bowl, Avery turned it over in her hands.
“Is that what you want?”
“You actually went.”
“I said I would.”
“What are you putting in it?”
I looked at the uneven little thing.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Avery handed it back.
“You actually went.”
“That’s okay.”
And it was.
I placed the bowl on the table and left it alone.
Then I sat beside my daughter.
She was still sick.
I was still scared.
“That’s okay.”
Hope hadn’t arrived as a miracle or an easy answer.
It looked smaller than that.
It looked like Avery asking her own questions.
It looked like me answering honestly.
It looked like tomorrow being uncertain and choosing to meet it anyway.
Hope hadn’t arrived as a miracle.
Avery slipped her hand into mine.
For almost two years, I’d believed loving her meant carrying everything before she could reach for it.
Sometimes love was carrying the bag.
Sometimes it was handing it back.
Avery slipped her hand into mine.
