Life doesn't stop for tragedy—it just keeps moving, dragging you along whether you're ready or not.
Wednesday arrived with the kind of gray November cold that made everything feel harder.
Ethan woke at six AM to his alarm, his body heavy with exhaustion. He'd slept maybe four hours, his mind refusing to quiet even when his body desperately needed rest.
He got up, showered, and found his mother already awake in the kitchen, moving slowly but moving.
"You should be resting," he said.
"I've been resting. I'm fine." She was making oatmeal, her movements careful and deliberate. "You have class this morning."
"I can skip—"
"No, you can't. We talked about this, Ethan. You're not putting your life on hold."
"Mom—"
"Go to class. Come home after. I'll be here." She turned to face him. "I need you to live your life, sweetheart. I need to know that this isn't destroying everything. Can you do that for me?"
Ethan wanted to argue. But the look in her eyes—pleading, desperate—stopped him.
"Okay. I'll go to class."
"Thank you."
Lily emerged from her room, already dressed for school. "Morning."
"Morning, baby," Sarah said. "Breakfast?"
"Not hungry."
"Lily—"
"I said I'm not hungry." Lily's voice was sharp. "I'm going to school. I'll be home by four."
She grabbed her backpack and left before either of them could respond.
Sarah sighed. "She's taking this hard."
"We all are."
"I know. But she's sixteen. She shouldn't have to—" Sarah stopped. "This isn't fair to either of you."
"Life isn't fair. We deal with what we're given."
"When did you get so philosophical?"
"When I had to grow up at fourteen."
Sarah's expression crumpled slightly. "Ethan—"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" He moved to hug her. "I'm just tired. And scared."
"Me too." She held him tight. "Me too."
Computer Science was a blur.
Ethan sat in his usual spot in the back, Vanessa beside him, and tried to focus on Professor Nguyen's lecture about data structures. The words washed over him without meaning.
Vanessa took notes for both of them, occasionally glancing at him with concern.
During the break, Jessica approached their table.
"Hey, Ethan. I heard about your mom. I'm really sorry."
Ethan looked up, surprised. "How did you—"
"Small campus. Word travels." Jessica's expression was genuinely sympathetic. "If you need notes from any classes you miss, I'm happy to share mine."
"Thanks. I appreciate that."
"And if you need to talk, or just need a study break—I'm around." She smiled gently, then headed back to her seat.
Vanessa watched her go, her expression unreadable.
"That was nice of her," Ethan said.
"Yeah. It was."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I am. It's just—" Vanessa shook her head. "Never mind. I'm being paranoid again."
"About what?"
"About girls being nice to you when you're vulnerable. It's a classic move."
"Jessica's just being a decent human being."
"I know. You're right. I'm sorry." Vanessa took his hand under the table. "How are you holding up?"
"I don't know. Functioning, I guess."
"That's something."
"Is it? Because it doesn't feel like enough."
Before Vanessa could respond, Professor Nguyen called the class back to attention.
After class, Ethan's phone rang. An unknown number.
His heart jumped. "Hello?"
"Mr. Cross? This is Dr. Morrison's office. We have your mother's pathology results back earlier than expected. Can you and Mrs. Cross come in this afternoon to discuss them?"
Ethan's blood ran cold. "This afternoon? It's only been a day—"
"The lab expedited the results given your mother's history. Are you available at three PM?"
"Yes. We'll be there."
"Excellent. See you then."
The call ended.
Vanessa was staring at him. "What is it?"
"Pathology results are back. We have an appointment at three."
"Already? That's fast."
"Too fast." Ethan felt panic rising in his chest. "That means it's bad, right? They only rush results when it's bad."
"Or they rushed it because they knew you'd be anxious. It could mean anything."
"Or it could mean the cancer is worse than they thought."
"Ethan, you can't spiral before you know anything." Vanessa grabbed his shoulders. "Breathe. Just breathe."
He tried. His lungs felt too tight.
"I need to call my mom. And Lily." He pulled out his phone with shaking hands. "And I need to—I don't know what I need to do."
"You need to go home, tell your mom, and then we go to the appointment together. One step at a time."
"Will you come? To the appointment?"
"Of course. I'll meet you there."
"You have class—"
"I'm skipping. This is more important."
Ethan hugged her tightly. "Thank you."
"Always."
Sarah took the news calmly.
Too calmly.
"Three PM," she repeated when Ethan told her. "Okay. I'll be ready."
"Mom, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Just—processing."
"Do you want me to call Lily? Have her come home?"
"No. Let her finish school. We'll tell her tonight after we know something concrete." Sarah sat at the kitchen table, hands folded in front of her. "This is good, actually. The waiting was killing me. At least now we'll know."
Ethan sat across from her. "I'm scared."
"So am I."
"What if it's worse than they thought?"
"Then we deal with it. We make a plan. We fight." Sarah reached across and took his hand. "But we can't control what the results say, Ethan. We can only control how we respond."
"When did you get so zen about this?"
"I'm not zen. I'm terrified. But I've learned that panic doesn't help. So I'm choosing to stay calm until I have a reason not to be."
"I wish I could do that."
"You can. You're stronger than you think."
At 2:45 PM, Ethan and Sarah caught the bus to the hospital.
Vanessa was waiting outside the oncology wing, holding two cups of tea.
"Thought you might want something warm," she said, handing one to Sarah.
"You're very thoughtful, dear. Thank you."
They checked in and were directed to Dr. Morrison's office—a small, comfortable room with degrees on the walls and family photos on the desk.
Dr. Morrison entered a few minutes later, a folder in his hands.
"Mrs. Cross, Mr. Cross, Miss Monroe. Thank you for coming in on short notice." He sat behind his desk. "I wanted to discuss the pathology results in person rather than over the phone."
"Is it cancer?" Sarah asked directly.
"Yes. The biopsy confirmed malignant cells. Adenocarcinoma, same type as your previous diagnosis." Dr. Morrison opened the folder. "However, the staging is favorable. Based on the size, location, and the lack of lymph node involvement, we're classifying this as Stage 1B."
Ethan felt like he could breathe for the first time in days. "Stage 1? That's early?"
"Very early. Stage 1 means the cancer is localized—it hasn't spread beyond the primary site. That's excellent news."
"What's the treatment plan?" Sarah asked.
"I'm recommending surgical removal of the tumor, followed by adjuvant chemotherapy—that means chemo after surgery to eliminate any microscopic cancer cells that might remain. The surgery would be laparoscopic, minimally invasive. Recovery time is typically two to three weeks."
"And the chemo?"
"Four cycles, administered every three weeks. So about twelve weeks total. We'll use a combination regimen that's proven effective for this type of cancer." Dr. Morrison's tone was confident. "Mrs. Cross, your prognosis is very good. With surgery and chemo, your five-year survival rate is over ninety percent."
Ninety percent.
The number hung in the air.
"When would we start?" Sarah asked.
"I'd like to schedule the surgery for next week. The sooner we remove the tumor, the better. Then we begin chemo approximately three weeks post-surgery, once you've healed."
"Next week." Sarah absorbed this. "Okay. What day?"
"Let me check the surgical schedule." Dr. Morrison pulled up his computer. "How's Tuesday, November 28th? The day before Thanksgiving."
Sarah laughed—short and bitter. "Perfect timing."
"I know it's not ideal. We can schedule for the following week if you prefer—"
"No. Let's do it. The sooner the better." Sarah looked at Ethan. "You okay with that?"
"Whatever you need, Mom."
Dr. Morrison walked them through the details—pre-op requirements, what to expect during recovery, the chemotherapy schedule. He answered every question patiently, his demeanor calm and reassuring.
By the time they left his office forty-five minutes later, they had a plan.
Surgery on the 28th.
Chemo starting mid-December.
Treatment ending in March.
It was concrete. Manageable. Terrifying.
But at least it was a path forward.
On the bus ride home, Sarah was quiet.
Vanessa sat beside Ethan, holding his hand.
"Ninety percent," Ethan said finally. "That's good, right?"
"That's very good," Vanessa confirmed.
"But not a guarantee."
"Nothing's a guarantee. But it's the best odds you could hope for."
Sarah spoke for the first time since leaving the hospital. "I need to call my work. Let them know I'll need medical leave."
"They can't fire you for that," Ethan said. "It's illegal."
"They won't fire me. But they won't pay me either. Short-term disability only covers sixty percent of my salary." Sarah stared out the window. "We're going to have to be very careful with money for the next few months."
"I can pick up more shifts at Harlow's."
"No. You're already working too much."
"Mom—"
"I mean it, Ethan. You're not sacrificing your education for this."
"Then what do we do? How do we cover the bills?"
Sarah was quiet for a moment. "We figure it out. We always do."
But Ethan could hear the uncertainty in her voice.
Lily was home when they arrived, sitting at the kitchen table doing homework.
She looked up when they walked in. "Well?"
Sarah sat across from her. "It's cancer. Stage 1. I'm having surgery next Tuesday."
Lily's face went white. "Surgery."
"It's a good thing. They're going to remove it. Then I'll do chemo. And then I'll be fine."
"How long is chemo?"
"Three months."
"Three months." Lily's voice was hollow. "So this is going to be our life until March."
"Yes. But then it'll be over. And I'll be healthy again."
Lily stood abruptly. "I need to—I can't—"
She ran to her room and slammed the door.
Sarah sighed. "She's taking this harder than I thought."
"She's scared," Ethan said. "We all are."
Vanessa, who'd been standing quietly by the door, finally spoke. "Mrs. Cross, is there anything I can do? To help? With Lily, or with anything?"
Sarah looked at her—really looked at her. "You're already helping more than you know. Just by being here. By supporting Ethan."
"I want to do more."
"Then keep doing what you're doing. Keep him sane. Keep him from carrying all of this alone." Sarah smiled slightly. "That's more than enough."
Vanessa nodded. "I can do that."
That night, after Vanessa had gone home and Lily had finally emerged from her room for a silent dinner, Ethan lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Vanessa: How are you?
Ethan: Overwhelmed. Scared. Relieved that it's early stage. Terrified that ninety percent isn't one hundred.
Vanessa: That's a lot of feelings.
Ethan: Yeah.
Vanessa: Can I call?
Ethan: Please.
The phone rang seconds later.
"Hi," he answered.
"Hi." Vanessa's voice was soft. "Talk to me. What's going through your head?"
"Everything. The surgery, the chemo, how we're going to pay for it all, how I'm supposed to keep up with school while my mom is sick—" His voice cracked. "And I keep thinking about Thanksgiving. The surgery is the day before. She's going to be in the hospital for Thanksgiving."
"We'll figure out a way to make it special anyway. Bring Thanksgiving to her."
"It won't be the same."
"No. But it'll be something." Vanessa paused. "Ethan, I need to tell you something."
"Okay..."
"I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. I'm staying here. With you."
"Vanessa, you can't—your family—"
"My father understands. I talked to him tonight. Told him about your mom's surgery. He said family takes care of family, and you're my family now." Her voice was firm. "So I'm staying. And we're going to get through this together."
Ethan felt tears slip down his cheeks. "I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do. You just don't see it yet."
They talked for another hour—about nothing important, just filling the silence with each other's voices.
And when Ethan finally fell asleep, phone still in his hand, he dreamed of a future where his mother was healthy and Vanessa was still beside him.
It felt impossible.
But he chose to believe in it anyway.