Maya had been sick long before anyone in our house was willing to call it sickness.
That was the part I kept coming back to later.
Not the scan.
Not the doctor’s face.
Not even the sentence that changed the air in the exam room.
It was the weeks before, when my daughter was disappearing in plain sight and the person who should have helped me protect her kept acting like she was an inconvenience.
Maya was fifteen, and until that spring she had been the kind of girl who could fill a house without trying.
She kicked soccer balls across the backyard until the porch light buzzed on.
She left camera batteries charging beside the toaster because she was always chasing the right sunset.
She sang badly when she unloaded the dishwasher and laughed when I told her the dog had more rhythm than she did.
Then the nausea started.
At first, she said it was just her stomach.
Then she said lunch at school made her feel gross.
