“You kept showing up with that collar buttoned, that pack adjusted wrong, and a look on your face like you were waiting for someone to tell you to go home.”
“I was not waiting.”
“You were daring us to make you.”
I looked down at my hands.
They had stopped trembling, though my fingers still felt weak.
“My sister died because people kept telling her she was stronger than she felt.”
Vega went still.
I had not intended to say that either.
The medic’s eyes lowered to the floor.
“She had ovarian cancer,” I continued.
“Different from mine, but the same gene.
BRCA1.
We found out after she was diagnosed.
By then, there wasn’t much anyone could do.”
Vega’s face had gone pale beneath the dust.
“She was older?” he asked.
“Twenty-eight.”
“And you?”
“Twenty-four.”
He said nothing.
“She spent months telling everyone she was fine.
She went to work.
She made dinner.
She took care of our mother.
Every time someone offered to help, she said she could manage.”
My throat tightened.
“I believed her because she wanted me to.
Then one day she couldn’t stand up.”
The truck seemed suddenly too small.
“I had my surgery a year later,” I said.
