“I know,” Megan said. Then she looked at me. “If Emily wants to come home with me.”
For the first time in weeks, the future did not look completely dark.
The paperwork took a week. On November 15th, Megan packed my few belongings into her old Honda and drove me to Maple Lane.
Her house was small, with peeling paint on the porch, but the second I stepped inside, it felt safe.
“This is your room,” she said.
The walls were lavender. I had mentioned once, during a late-night card game, that lavender was my favorite color. There was a new bed with a purple comforter, a desk by the window, and a framed photo of the two of us smiling in the hospital.
“Welcome home, Emily,” she whispered.
I broke down completely. But this time, the tears were not only grief. They were relief.
Megan held me tight.
“You’re safe now,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The next two years were brutal. Chemotherapy burned through me. But Megan was there for every infusion, every fever, every panic attack, every bald-headed morning when I felt ugly and broken.
She would look at me and say, “Good morning, beautiful girl. I’m lucky to see your face.”
Insurance paid for most of the treatment, but the extra costs were overwhelming. Co-pays, medication, special food, gas, appointments. Megan’s nurse salary was not enough, though she never let me see her worry. Years later, I found out she had taken out a second mortgage on her house so I would never feel like a burden.
Six months into treatment, she sat me down at the kitchen table. Waffles the cat was asleep on the rug.
