Then she began crying.
I sat beside her.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Eventually, she looked toward the hallway.
“I keep wondering whether I'm missing something.”
I shook my head.
“Like what?”
“Some medicine. Some treatment. Some question I should ask.”
I understood the feeling.
When Sarah was sick, I spent hours reading medical articles I barely understood.
I searched for treatments.
I worried that another doctor might know something ours didn't.
I convinced myself that if I worked hard enough, I could find the one answer everyone else had missed.
But cancer wasn't a motorcycle engine.
There wasn't always one broken part.
I looked at Angie.
“Have you asked his doctors to explain the options and what they're watching for?”
She nodded.
“Over and over.”
“Then keep asking when you need to. And let them help you understand.”
She rubbed her eyes.
“I feel like I'm supposed to know what to do.”
I shook my head.
“You're his mother. You don't have to become a cancer specialist overnight.”
She looked down.
“I just want to protect him.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
Then I told her something I had never said to anyone.
“When Sarah was sick, I thought that if I couldn't save her, it meant I hadn't loved her enough.”
Angie stared.
My voice trembled.
“I knew it wasn't logical. But that's what grief did to me.”
She reached for my hand.
I continued.
“It took me years to understand that loving a child and controlling a disease are two different things.”
Tears ran down her face.
I looked toward Tucker's room.
“You're doing the work of being his mother. You're showing up. You're asking questions. You're keeping him company. You're making sure he gets the care his team recommends.”
I swallowed.
“That matters, even on the days when the scans don't say what we want.”
Angie lowered her head.
For a long time, she cried.
I stayed.
That night, after Tucker fell into a deeper sleep, Angie admitted something that frightened me.
“I don't know how much longer I can keep being strong.”
I looked at her.
“Then don't be strong every minute.”
She gave a bitter little laugh.
“That's easy to say.”
“I know.”
I leaned forward.
“But maybe strength isn't pretending you're never scared. Maybe it's getting through the next hour, then the next.”
She looked down.
“And when I can't?”
I squeezed her hand.
“Then let somebody help.”
She closed her eyes.
For a while, we sat quietly.
Then she whispered, “I'm glad he found you.”
I looked toward the hallway.