Every Doctor Treating My 7 Year Old Daughter for Cancer Dressed as Superheroes for Her Birthday She Was Crying with Joy When Her Oncologist Knelt Down and Said, There s One Part of Today Your Mom Doesn t Know About Either

Then I stood there, staring at it.

That bag had followed us for almost a year.

It meant preparedness, control, the belief that if I packed enough,

checked enough, and watched enough, nothing could surprise me again.

I lifted it back out.

Then I stood there.

Her necessary medicine and medical information stayed with us.

The overnight bag stayed home.

At school, Alice stopped at the entrance and grabbed my hand.

“What if everybody looks at me?”

“What if it’s weird?”

“It probably will be.”

She looked up at me.

“And if you hate it, we’ll figure out tomorrow.”

She stayed beside me another second.

She squeezed my hand for a moment, and then she let go.

Alice walked inside without me.

“It probably will be.”

And I left, actually left.

At home, the hospital bag sat beside the door.

It went cold while I checked the time.