My heart broke every time I watched her.
***
Two days before prom, another round of chemotherapy made Carol feel even worse.
I drove her back to the hospital with shaking hands while she rested her cheek against the cool window. She didn’t say much; she didn’t have to.
My daughter was admitted for the night, then the next, then indefinitely.
“I won’t make it, will I, Mom?” Carol whispered from the bed.
I sat beside her and smoothed her thin hair back from her forehead.
“You’re going to make it to plenty of proms, baby. This is just a delay.”
She turned her face toward the wall.
I drove her back to the hospital.
***
The following evening, I was rinsing out Carol’s water cup at the little sink in her room when Nurse Jenny appeared in the doorway with a strange look on her face.
“Linda, honey,” she said. “Can you step into the hallway for a second? Just for a minute.”
I dried my hands and followed her out, assuming it was paperwork or worse.
I stepped through the door and froze.
