“You came here… while I’m in chemo… to ask me to co-sign a loan?”
“It’s not like we’re asking for money,” Megan said.
That’s when my son walked in.
Six years old.
Holding a folded piece of paper.
“Mommy said to give you this if you ask for money.”
My mother took it.
Started reading.
And her face changed.
It was an oncology note.
Signed.
Official.
It said I was undergoing chemotherapy and should avoid financial stress.
And at the bottom, in my handwriting:
If you’re reading this, it means I was too tired to argue. The answer is no.
“You made your kid do this?” Megan snapped.
I pushed the blanket off me.
“You walked into my house and asked a cancer patient to risk her future for a car you don’t need.”
“I do need a car.”
“You need this car,” I said. “With heated seats.”
“Families help each other,” my mother said.
I laughed.
It didn’t sound like me.
“Which part was family?” I asked.
“When I called you from the hospital?”
“When you didn’t come?”
“When I went through chemo alone?”
“We sent flowers,” Megan said.
A voice from the doorway cut through everything:
“I’m the one who showed up.”
Denise.
Still holding a casserole.
Still there.
That’s when everything became clear.
Not louder.
Quieter.
Colder.
Final.
“No,” I said. “You’re not getting my signature.”
“Fine,” Megan snapped. “Forget it.”
“I will,” I said. “And I’m done being your backup plan.”
“You’re overreacting because you’re sick,” my mother said.
“No,” I replied.
