Vanessa’s face crumpled.
Claire continued:
“That is my decision.”
The words echoed across decades.
My decision.
Vanessa covered her mouth.
Claire crossed the room.
This time she embraced her.
No hesitation.
They stood beside the dining table and cried.
When Lily came downstairs holding an old camera, she stopped halfway.
“What happened?”
Claire and Vanessa separated.
Vanessa wiped her eyes.
Lily stared.
Then her face changed.
People learned expressions from family.
She knew.
“Who’s sick?”
Claire’s heart broke.
Vanessa whispered:
“Me.”
Lily put the camera down.
Slowly.
“What?”
Vanessa told her.
Not everything.
Enough.
Lily listened without interruption.
Then sat.
For several seconds, she stared at the table.
Finally:
“Are you going to die?”
Vanessa’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Claire wanted to object.
Maybe.
Not necessarily.
Medicine.
Trials.
Hope.
But Lily was thirty-seven.
Not eight.
She deserved clean answers.
Vanessa continued:
“Probably sooner than we want.”
Lily nodded once.
Then asked:
“Can I swear?”
Claire almost laughed.
“You're thirty-seven.”
“Good.”
Lily stood.
“Fuck.”
Vanessa laughed through tears.
“Accurate.”
Lily crossed the room.
Hugged her aunt.
No USB.
No ballroom.
No accusation.
Just time.
Treatment changed Vanessa quickly.
Hair first.
Then appetite.
Then energy.
Claire went to appointments when invited.
Not every one.
Vanessa had friends.
Neighbors.
A former colleague.
A woman named Ruth she had met during court-ordered community service decades earlier and somehow remained close to ever since.
Claire was glad.
She did not want to become the only witness to Vanessa’s dying.
That would have repeated another old pattern.
One person carrying too much because family meant nobody else counted.
Lily visited often.
Sometimes with sound equipment.
Vanessa mocked her.
“What are you doing, making an album of my vomiting?”
“No.”
Lily adjusted a microphone near the window.
“Birds.”
“Why?”
“Because your apartment sounds nice in the morning.”
Vanessa looked suspicious.
“Is this one of those emotional projects?”
“Probably.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
Lily began recording anyway.
One afternoon, Vanessa asked:
“Do you still have the original wedding recording?”
Lily looked toward her.
“Yes.”
“Not the USB.”
“The file.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Encrypted archive.”
Vanessa laughed weakly.
“You became a professional.”
“I was eight.”
“I had primitive storage habits.”
Vanessa looked toward the ceiling.
“I want to hear one part.”
Lily became still.