I still remember the smell of that room. Sharp antiseptic. Rubbing alcohol. A fake floral air freshener plugged into the wall. I was sitting on the edge of the exam table, wrapped in a paper gown that would not stay closed. My legs dangled above the floor because I was small for my age, and I was shaking so hard the paper crinkled with every breath.
Dr. Collins had just given us the diagnosis.
Acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
He explained that it was one of the most common childhood cancers. He tried to sound hopeful. He said that with aggressive chemotherapy, my chances of survival were strong—around eighty-five to ninety percent.
“Those are good odds, Emily,” he kept saying gently. “Very good odds.”
My mother, Karen, sat by the window staring at the ceiling as if the water stain above her mattered more than I did. My father, Richard, stood near the door with his arms crossed, his face growing redder by the second. My older sister, Ashley, sat in the corner tapping on her phone. She never looked up, not even when the word leukemia entered the room.
