He said it was “just to keep us ahead of it,” but Clara could hear the strain in his voice. “The treatments are working,” he’d say, trying to sound upbeat. “We just need to push through a little longer.” She’d smile and nod, pretending not to notice how often he checked their bank app afterward, or how the furrow between his brows never seemed to fade.
The nausea came first, then the pain, then the hair. Her reflection grew stranger by the day. Her skin dulled, her smile weakened, and her laughter — once the soundtrack of their home — began to fade. Still, she tried to stay hopeful.