Instead, my son frowned and asked, “Does this mean I get out of final exams?”
The doctor smiled gently.
“We’ll discuss school once we understand your treatment plan.”
Jack sighed.
“So that’s a no.”
Daniel laughed once, but the sound broke halfway through.
I wanted to shake Jack. I wanted to tell him this wasn’t the time to make jokes.
Instead, I reached for his hand and held it until the doctor finished speaking.
The following months became a blur of treatment schedules, hospital rooms, scans, medication, and waiting.
There were good days.
On good days, Jack complained about hospital food and demanded that Theo bring him something edible.
On bad days, he barely spoke.
Theo visited after school whenever he could. He brought books Jack rarely read, movies Jack had already seen, and snacks that the nurses repeatedly told him not to bring.
Once, I walked into Jack’s room and found the boys arguing over a game of Monopoly.
