Chapter 1

By the time I walked my mom, Eleanor, out of the clinic with her breast cancer diagnosis, the sun had already set.

I held her ice-cold hand as we pushed open the front door of our house.

The living room was dark, save for the glow of the television.

My dad, Richard, was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through TikTok with the volume blasted.

He didn’t even look up when we walked in.

"What took you so long at the hospital? I’m starving. Get in the kitchen and make dinner. I want pasta tonight."

My mom reflexively stuffed the diagnosis sheet deeper into her coat pocket. She hurriedly swapped her shoes and headed straight for the kitchen.

"I’ll get right on it, Richard. Pasta won't take long."

My younger brother, Tyler, who was sitting on the love seat peeling an orange, didn't bother to look up either.

"Yeah, Mom. Next time you go to the doctor, try to schedule it in the morning. Don't mess up our dinner schedule."

"Did either of you even ask what the doctor said?!"

Looking at my mom’s pale, bloodless face, and the bandage on her chest that was still seeping blood from the biopsy, anger flared hot in my chest.

"Don't, Chloe."

My mom desperately grabbed my wrist, her eyes pleading.

"You’re tired. Let me just make the food."

She dragged me into the kitchen, shutting the door firmly behind us.

The canned laughter from my dad’s TikTok filtered through the door, sounding incredibly grating.

My mom covered my mouth, her hand slick with cold sweat against my cheek. She kept her voice to a whisper.

"Chloe, please don't start a fight. Tyler is bringing Amber and her parents over tomorrow. Your dad is already stressed out about the wedding expenses. Don't cause trouble right now."

I stared at the bleeding bandage on her chest, a painful lump forming in my throat.

That was a core needle biopsy. The anesthesia had worn off, and the pain had to be agonizing.

Yet, she turned around and started pulling pasta boxes from the pantry.

I walked over and firmly grabbed her arm.

"Mom, look at yourself! You’re seriously going to cook for them right now?"

"Keep your voice down!" she pleaded, stamping her foot in panic.

"It’s just an illness. Cooking a quick meal won't kill me. If you start screaming, your father will lose his temper and start breaking things again."

She broke free from my grip and expertly dropped the pasta into the boiling water.

Twenty minutes later, two steaming plates of pasta were set on the dining table.

Richard picked up his fork, took a bite, and immediately slammed his fork down, his face twisting into a scowl.

"Why is this so salty? Did the salt shaker explode? This is barely edible!"

Tyler, still glued to his phone, chimed in without looking up.

"Mom, I told you I'm cutting back on sodium for my gym routine. I can’t eat this."

He pushed his plate away and grabbed a napkin.

My mom stood by the table, rubbing her hands nervously against her apron, letting out a dry, forced laugh.

"My hand slipped. I’m sorry. Tyler, let me fry you some eggs instead?"

"Forget it. My appetite is completely ruined," Tyler snapped.

Richard lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of gray smoke into her face.

"You spend all day at the clinic, and for what? Did they find some gold in your chest? You’re just looking for attention because you have too much free time."

I looked at the two men at the table.

Neither of them had looked up. Neither of them had noticed how pale she was.

I walked over, picked up both of their plates, and dumped them straight into the trash can.