“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“That wasn’t the same thing.”
“I know that now.”
He paused.
“Your problem wasn’t that you were weak.”
“What was it?”
“You thought you had to fight everyone.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your doctors,” he continued.
“Your mother. Your teammates. Me.”
He leaned forward.
“You even fought your own body.”
My eyes burned.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to.”
The words stayed between us.
Then he added quietly, “Not every battle is won by refusing to stop.”
I looked at him.
“Who taught you that?”
He smiled without humor.
“Experience.”
Before I could ask what he meant, someone called from the hallway.
“Vega!”
He stood.
“Coming.”
He turned toward me.
“Your biopsy is tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He left.
The biopsy itself lasted less than thirty minutes.
The waiting afterward lasted forever.
My mother sat beside me.
She held my hand the entire time.
When the doctor finally returned, he wasn’t carrying a folder.
He was smiling.
I knew before he spoke.
“It’s benign.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The tissue sample is benign.”
My mother covered her face with both hands.
I started crying.
Not graceful tears.
Not quiet tears.
