I was 14, and my brother Jason was eight, the day our father decided he wasn’t built for sickness.
My mom was upstairs in her bedroom, bald and shaking under three blankets after her second round of chemotherapy (chemo). Stage 3 breast cancer.
Our father decided he wasn’t built for sickness.
Jason and I sat halfway down the staircase, our backs pressed to the railing. We weren’t supposed to be listening, but the house was quiet enough that every sound carried.