He spoke slowly.
“She’d always been thin, so it was noticeable. She said it was food. Stress. Then she started getting tired.”
“And you measured her?”
“Later.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Her doctor wanted us tracking changes while they were deciding what to do. I became obsessed with it.”
“What did she have?”
“An ovarian tumor.”
My hands turned cold.
“Cancer?”
He looked toward the floor.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to shrink.
I instinctively touched my abdomen.
Daniel noticed.
“Sarah told you what you have doesn’t necessarily look like Rebecca’s.”
“She thinks mine may be a fibroid.”
“That’s completely different.”
“I know.”
But neither of us sounded reassured.
I scrolled through the photographs.
Most weren’t frightening.
Rebecca drinking juice through a straw.
Rebecca wearing a ridiculous paper crown.
Rebecca making an exaggerated annoyed expression while Daniel held measuring tape.
Then the photographs stopped being playful.
Hospital corridors.
Medication bottles.
Hands.
Windows.
