“He’s actually been less angry since…well, probably since he thought I was going to die.”

I stop and stare at her. Didn’t expect her to say that, but it makes sense. I had forgotten about her diagnosis. “…right.”

“He hasn’t said that to me but from how he was during that time, I think that’s what he thought,” She explains, breaking eye contact. I don’t want to remember this. I don’t want to talk about this. She hugs her arms.

I flashback to the drive back home with him.

“The drainage port got infected and those idiots, the doctors, they didn’t notice.” His brow furrows, but his eyes betray his resolve, tearing up as he tells me. He wipes his face and clears his throat. “She nearly died from that, you know.”

I didn’t know. I was 15 and all I knew was that I was getting picked up from my at-the-time girlfriend’s house because he texted me that she was in the ICU. I lied to my ex. Told her it was an appointment. I was scared. I think I was in denial, probably. I know that I didn’t stay in the room with her very long because I couldn’t keep pretending like everything was okay.

I don’t like talking about this, but I don’t like pretending like it’s not reality, or ignoring her when she’s still clearly sick even when she’s not on chemo anymore.

Still. I hate the uncertainty. I hate not knowing how much longer I’ll have my mom for.

Back in the present again. “Maybe.” I reply.