Your cancer can wait — Mom’s got a big birthday bash to celebrate…

The hospital walls seemed to close in on Emily with each passing day. The pale green paint, peeling in places, had become so familiar she could have sketched every crack with her eyes closed. The smell of bleach and medicine now felt more like home than the scent of her favorite perfume, which she used to love. Emily shifted onto her side, wincing from the pain in her bruised veins. The IV drip quietly ticked away the seconds of her life, delivering another dose of chemotherapy. Her hair, once thick and chestnut brown, had almost entirely fallen out. She remembered sobbing when she found the first clump on her pillow. Now, she just brushed the remaining strands off the hospital sheet with indifference.

“Nineteen days,” she whispered, staring at the wall calendar where a red marker circled the date of her surgery. “Nineteen days, and it’ll all be over. One way or another.” The sound of the door opening interrupted her thoughts. James, her husband, walked in with a bag of oranges and a strained smile. Five years ago, that smile used to make her heart race. They met that spring at a company event: she was an accountant, he a promising manager at the same bank. Tall, with dark curly hair and dimples, James had seemed perfect to her. Attentive, generous, with a great sense of humor—everything a girl could dream of. They got married a year later. Emily still remembered her naive dreams of a big, happy family, of children, of a house filled with laughter. Of growing old with James, sitting in rocking chairs on the porch of a suburban home. Back then, she didn’t know Margaret Thompson well enough to realize her dreams were doomed.

“How’re you feeling today?” James sat on the edge of the bed, awkwardly patting her hand. His eyes held a mix of pity and exhaustion. The last six months had drained them both. “Better than yesterday,” Emily lied. In truth, she’d been nauseous all day, and the headache was so intense that even the faint light from the window felt unbearable. But why burden him with the details? He already looked worn out. “I brought your favorites,” he said, nodding at the oranges. “Thanks,” she tried to smile. “Put them over there, I’ll peel them later.” James nodded and fell silent, fidgeting with the folds of the hospital blanket.

“Mom asked about you.” Emily pressed her lips together. Of course she did. Margaret always asked. But her questions were more like: “So, how much longer is our James going to suffer with this sick woman? Maybe we should find him someone healthier to run the house while she’s in treatment?” From the day they met, her mother-in-law made it clear Emily wasn’t the daughter-in-law she’d envisioned for her precious son. At first, it was comments about Emily being too thin to bear healthy children. Then came the criticisms of her cooking, cleaning, clothes, and the way she spoke. When the cancer diagnosis came, Margaret stopped hiding her disdain. “Cancer’s a death sentence,” she declared bluntly when James broke the news. “My James is still young, handsome. He needs a healthy wife, not this mess.”

“What’d you tell her?” Emily asked, already knowing the answer. “Just said you’re doing a bit better,” James looked away. “She wants to visit tomorrow. I told her you’d be happy to see her.” Emily closed her eyes, holding back tears. “Happy” was the last word to describe how she felt about Margaret’s visit. “Sure,” she managed. “Let her come.” There was a time when she hoped her illness might soften her mother-in-law, maybe even spark some empathy or warmth. But the diagnosis only cemented Margaret’s belief that her son had made a mistake marrying Emily.

“Don’t worry,” James started awkwardly. “Mom’s just concerned. In her own way. You know how she is.” “Oh, I know,” Emily thought. She knew all too well. “By the way, everyone at work says hi,” James quickly changed the subject. “Lisa from accounting started a fundraiser. They’ve raised almost $8,000 already.” The news warmed Emily’s heart a little. After she went on medical leave, her colleagues hadn’t forgotten her. They called regularly, sent messages, and now they were collecting money. When it became clear the surgery would have to be done at a private clinic and cost $30,000, Emily had fallen into despair. Their savings barely covered a tenth of that. But bit by bit, the money started coming in. Some gave $50, others $500. Friends chipped in, and Emily’s parents gave all their savings.

“That’s… that’s amazing.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “So we’ve got over $20,000 already?” James nodded. “$21,500. Ethan’s dad sent $1,000 yesterday.” Ethan was their high school friend. When he heard about Emily’s diagnosis, he offered help right away, even though they hadn’t spoken in years. “We’ll raise the rest before the surgery,” James said confidently. “I asked for an advance at work, and we can take out a loan if needed.” Emily nodded, feeling warmth spread through her chest. Despite everything, people were helping. Strangers, old friends, distant acquaintances—they were sending money, writing words of support, praying for her. It gave her the strength to keep fighting.

“Soon it’ll be over,” she whispered, staring out the window at the graying February sky. “Nineteen days, and I can start a new life.” James made a vague sound and looked away again. Lately, he’d been doing that a lot, as if he couldn’t meet her eyes. Emily chalked it up to exhaustion, fear, the weight of the situation. She had no idea that a plan was forming in her husband’s mind—one that would turn her life upside down. And not for the better…