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

The next day brought Margaret’s visit. She swept into the room like a hurricane, wearing a new fur coat, bright makeup, and a fresh blowout, her heels clicking loudly on the hospital linoleum. “Emily, darling!” her voice probably carried across the entire floor. “I’m here! Look what I brought!” She plopped a massive bag of fruit onto the nightstand—identical to the oranges James brought, just five times bigger. Emily sighed inwardly. This wasn’t care; it was a performance: *Look, I know better. My son brings you a measly bag, but I bring a mountain. I’m better!*

“Hello, Margaret,” Emily said quietly, trying to stay calm. “Thanks for the fruit, but I can’t eat that much.” “Oh, give it to the other patients then,” Margaret waved it off, dropping into the chair by the bed. She reeked of perfume—a scent Emily had associated with strict high school teachers since childhood. “How’re you holding up? You look…” She paused, eyeing Emily from head to toe. “Not great. But it’ll pass. Or it won’t.” The last words were so quiet Emily almost missed them. Almost.

“The doctors say the prognosis is good,” Emily said, trying to sound confident. “After the surgery, there’s a high chance of full recovery.” “Oh, please, what do doctors know!” Margaret threw her hands up. “My friend Barbara went through all that treatment, and then—poof! Gone! And the money they spent? Bankrupted her husband on those fancy American drugs.” Emily clenched her jaw. She knew this tactic: scare her, undermine her hope. Why? What did Margaret gain from it? Did she really think she was saving her son from pointless expenses? Or was it something deeper—she just didn’t want Emily to recover?

“Everyone’s case is different,” Emily replied diplomatically. “The doctors say my cancer is operable.” “Sure, sure,” Margaret waved her hand again. “Keep fighting, honey. But my poor James is a wreck. He’s lost weight, looks haggard. Came to me yesterday, broke down. Said, ‘Mom, I can’t take it anymore. Work’s a nightmare, the house is empty, the hospital’s terrifying.’” Emily closed her eyes. James had never said those words to her. He’d always been supportive, certain everything would be okay. Did he really say that to his mother? Or was she making it up to hurt her?

“James is handling it,” Emily said firmly. “He’s strong.” “Of course he’s strong. Takes after me.” Margaret sat up straighter, proud. “I raised him alone, you know, after his dad left. James is my only joy in life. I’d do anything for him. Anything. And I won’t let his youth be wasted in hospital hallways.” The last sentence was pointed, her eyes locked on Emily’s. It wasn’t just a jab—it was a warning.

“My treatment won’t last forever,” Emily said softly. “A few more weeks, and it’ll be behind us.” “And if it’s not?” Margaret leaned closer. The smell of her perfume made Emily dizzy. “If it drags on for years? If you keep tying him to this hospital bed? My son deserves happiness, you understand? Real happiness, with a healthy wife, with kids. Not… this.” She gestured around the room, as if to emphasize the hopelessness of it all.

“James and I will figure out our lives,” Emily said, feeling a lump in her throat. “I appreciate your concern for your son, but—” “Concern?” Margaret cut her off. “I’m talking facts. You’re sick. Seriously sick. And my James is young, handsome, with a bright future. You haven’t even had kids, thank God.” She didn’t finish, but the implication was clear: *So you could go at any time, and nothing would tie my son to you.*

Emily felt a tear roll down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, refusing to show weakness in front of this woman. “I love your son,” she said simply. “And I believe he loves me. We’ll get through this.” Margaret snorted. “Love. That’s all romantic nonsense. Love fades, sweetheart, especially when one partner becomes a burden.” She stood, adjusting her coat’s collar. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Take care. And… think about what I said.”

When the door closed behind her, Emily finally let herself sob. Tears poured out, washing away the last of her strength and hope. Every visit from Margaret was like a session of psychological torture. And the worst part? A small piece of her feared Margaret was right. That she was a burden to James, that he’d be happier with someone else, healthy and full of life. “Nineteen days,” she reminded herself, staring at the calendar. “Nineteen days, and I’ll be back to a real life. We’ve weathered storms before, we’ll weather this one.” She didn’t know the worst storm was still coming. And that the clouds over her life were darkening, thanks to the woman who’d just left her room.

The calendar in Emily’s room became an object of near-sacred devotion. Each morning, she crossed off another day, bringing her closer to the surgery. Fourteen days. Thirteen. Twelve. With every marked date, her mood lifted, despite the grueling chemo sessions. “You’re looking better,” Nurse Sarah noted, changing the IV. “Your eyes are brighter, cheeks pinker.” “Hope works wonders,” Emily smiled. “Less than two weeks to go.” “And then we’ll celebrate your return to normal life,” Sarah winked. “I’ll bake a pie. Just come back and show off your results.”

Emily nodded. Over the past months, the hospital staff had become like a second family. Sarah, a middle-aged nurse with kind eyes, especially. She always made time to chat, offer support, or share a funny story from hospital life. Unlike her mother-in-law, who treated Emily’s illness as a personal insult. “I won’t just come back,” Emily said. “I’ll bring a cake and champagne. For everyone who helped me survive.” Sarah smiled and adjusted the pillow. “Deal. Now rest, you’ll need your strength.”

Emily closed her eyes, not to sleep but to dream. Plans swirled in her mind: going back to work, maybe moving to a bigger apartment, perhaps starting a family. The illness had shifted her perspective. Before, she’d put off big decisions, thinking she had forever. Now she knew life could end at any moment, and she had to chase her dreams while she could.

Her phone buzzed—a message from her friend Jessica: “Em, the girls and I raised another $1,200. Where do I send it?” The news warmed her heart. The fund was nearing the $30,000 goal. Emily quickly sent the details of the special account she and James had opened for the surgery and added, “Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this.” More messages came from colleagues, checking on her health, sharing office gossip, promising to visit over the weekend. Emily replied to each, feeling a surge of gratitude. She hadn’t realized how many people cared…