As my mother’s health began to fail, the house changed in ways none of us could name at the time. At first it was subtle—longer pauses when she climbed the stairs, the way she pressed a hand to her side when she thought no one was looking, the quiet sighs she released after simple chores. Our father noticed too, of course, but instead of leaning in, he leaned away. The diagnosis came swiftly and cruelly, turning our unease into dread. Cancer. Aggressive.

The word echoed through every room of the house, settling into the walls like a stain that would never wash out. I was eighteen, still counting my life in semesters and weekends, and my twin brother Daniel was the same—both of us standing at the edge of adulthood with no idea how quickly we’d be shoved over. We had three younger siblings who still measured time in cartoons and school lunches: Liam, Maya, and Sophie. When our father gathered us in the living room just days after the diagnosis, his voice was steady in a way that felt wrong. He told us he’d found someone else, someone who made him feel happy, alive, unburdened. He said he couldn’t watch Mom get sick.