My Little Girl Was Hooked Up to Machines and I Just

My Little Girl Was Hooked Up to Machines and I Just Wanted My Parents’ Support, but When They Refused to Help Over “Principles,” Our Hospital Room Became the Battlefield Where I Finally Chose My Daughter Over Their Approval

I used to think hospitals were for other people.

Other people’s tragedies. Other people’s emergencies. Other people’s kids.

You tell yourself that, you know? You see the commercials with the bald-headed children in cartoon pajamas and you cry a little, maybe send ten bucks, then you go back to your regular life. You tuck your own kids into bed and think, Thank God that’s not us. You promise yourself you’ll never take things for granted again.

And then one Thursday afternoon in March, the school calls.

“Ms. Hall?” the nurse said. “Can you come pick up Lily? She says her stomach hurts and she’s running a fever.”

Lily was seven. My sunbeam girl. She’d been a little pale that morning, but she’d insisted on going in. “It’s pizza day,” she’d said, shouldering her glitter unicorn backpack like it weighed nothing. “And we have art. I can’t miss art.”

By the time I got there, she was curled up on the cot in the nurse’s office, cheeks flushed, one arm wrapped around her stomach.

“Hey, bug,” I whispered, brushing the sweaty hair from her forehead.

“It hurts, Mommy,” she mumbled.

I scooped her up, all skinny arms and legs, and carried her to the car.

I thought maybe it was a stomach bug. Maybe she’d eaten something weird. Maybe she was faking it because math test day finally caught up with her.

By Saturday night, when she couldn’t keep down water and her belly was puffy and tight, I stopped pretending.

We spent nine hours in the ER waiting room, Lily drifting in and out of sleep on my lap, her small hand cold and limp in mine. At one point, a toddler screamed for forty-five minutes straight and I thought my skull might crack open.

I texted my parents.

Me: Hey. At the hospital with Lily. High fever and stomach pain. Just wanted you to know.

Mom read it twenty minutes later. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Mom: Oh no 😢 keep me posted

Dad didn’t text at all.

When they finally took us back, the doctor was kind. She spoke in that soft, practiced voice I’d come to recognize over the next few months. They drew blood. They ordered an ultrasound. They murmured in the hallway where they thought I couldn’t hear.

When she came back with the results, she pulled a chair up next to me.

“I’m really sorry, Ms. Hall,” she said. “We found something concerning.”

I stared at her.

“My recommendation,” she said gently, “is that we transfer Lily to Children’s Medical. They have a pediatric oncology team. They’ll be able to give you more information.”

“Oncology,” I repeated, like the word was in a language I didn’t speak.

She nodded.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said. “But the sooner we get her there, the sooner we can start figuring out what’s going on.”

The next forty-eight hours blurred into a series of images.

An ambulance ride in the dark, sirens wailing, Lily’s small body dwarfed by white sheets.

A pediatric oncologist with kind eyes and a hard voice saying “leukemia” and “aggressive” and “we need to start treatment immediately.”

My ex-husband, Jason, arriving from three states away, his face pale and drawn, hands shaking as he kissed Lily’s forehead and said, “Hey, baby bird.” He smelled like cigarettes and airplane coffee.

My parents calling from their house two hours away, their voices crackling on speakerphone.

“We’re praying,” my mother said. “God has a plan.”

“Do you need anything?” my father asked gruffly. “Money, gas?”

“Just… just pray,” I said, because it was easier than saying, I need you here.

The first round of chemo started that night.

They signed the forms.

They hung the bag.

They ran poison into my daughter’s veins.

I held her hand and watched cartoons on the tiny screen bolted to the wall while bright red liquid drip-drip-dripped through clear tubing.

“It looks like fruit punch,” she said sleepily.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Superhero juice.”

She nodded, trusting.

She always had.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I sat in the orange vinyl recliner next to her bed, wrapped in a scratchy hospital blanket, staring at the monitors and listening to the soft hiss of the oxygen and the distant hum of nurses’ shoes on linoleum.

Every beep made me jump.

My brain tried to claw its way out of my skull.

At three in the morning, my phone buzzed.

A text from my mom.

Mom: We told Pastor Rick. He’s asking everyone to pray. Remember, God never gives us more than we can handle.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

I typed, erased, typed again.

Me: She has leukemia, Mom.

The three dots appeared.

Mom: We’ll come visit next weekend, okay? We have Bible study Thursday and your father is ushering on Sunday. But we’ll be there.

Next weekend.

Lily stirred in her bed.

“Mommy?” she murmured. “My tummy hurts.”

I dropped the phone onto the chair and leaned over her, pressing the call button with my elbow.

“I’m here, baby,” I said. “I’m right here.”

By Monday, I smelled like hand sanitizer and fear.

I’d showered once in the family room down the hall, scrubbing my skin until it burned, trying to wash off the hospital smell. It clung anyway, a mix of bleach and sickness and institutional coffee.

Lily slept a lot.

When she was awake, she watched cartoons with the flat, glassy-eyed stare of someone seeing but not really seeing.

Her hair, her beloved brown waves that she’d insisted on growing out “like Rapunzel,” had started falling out in soft little tumbleweeds on her pillow.

“Mommy, my hair’s being weird,” she said Monday morning, tugging at a clump that came away between her fingers.

The look on her face almost broke me.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, scooting closer. “That’s the medicine doing its job.”

“Why does it have to take my hair?” she asked, small voice wobbling.

“Because it’s going after the bad guys,” I said, forcing the words around the lump in my throat. “It doesn’t always know the difference. But it’s okay. Hair grows back. We’ll get you a cool hat. Or ten hats. Or a whole closet full.”

She looked skeptical.

“Can I get one with kittens?” she asked.

“You can get one with kittens, and unicorns, and sparkles, and dinosaurs wearing sunglasses if you want,” I said. “We’ll make it a whole fashion show.”

She managed a tiny smile.

“Can I wear my pink hoodie?” she asked. “The fuzzy one? It’s cold here.”

Guilt stabbed me.

Her favorite hoodie was in her dresser at home, probably wadded up on the bottom of the laundry basket where she’d left it after school on Wednesday.

I was halfway to promising I’d go get it when I remembered: I couldn’t leave.

The doctors had been clear.

“Right now, we need at least one parent here at all times,” Dr. Lee had said. “Things can change quickly in these first few days. We’ll get you set up with a schedule so you can trade off if you’d like, but we need someone reachable.”

Jason had flown back home Sunday night after we’d sat in the hallway and talked numbers and time off and logistics. He worked construction. No work, no pay. No pay, no rent.

“I’ll be back in a couple weeks,” he’d said, eyes red. “I swear. I’ll talk to my boss. We’ll figure something out.”

“Drive safe,” I’d said, hugging him in the parking garage, the concrete echoing around us.

He’d held on a second longer than usual.

“You’re strong, Em,” he’d said. “Stronger than anyone I know.”

I didn’t feel strong.

I felt like a cracked vase being held together by tape and stubbornness.

The idea of leaving Lily alone, even for an hour, made my chest seize up.

But she was shivering under three hospital blankets, her teeth chattering.

“Okay,” I said, stroking her cheek. “Let me see what I can do, okay? I’ll figure something out.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

For half a second, I considered calling Jason.

He’d drive up if I asked.

He’d done it before, even when it meant sleeping in his truck in the parking lot and going back to work with circles under his eyes.

But he’d just gotten back.

He’d texted me that morning.

Jason: Got back at 3am. Boss is pissed but I’ll make it work. How’s our girl?

I’d sent him a picture of Lily sleeping, her hand curled around Mr. Bun, the stuffed rabbit she’d had since she was two.

Me: Hang in there. We love you.

I stared at the screen.

I didn’t want to be the reason he lost his job.

He was already doing everything he could.

I scrolled to my mom’s contact.

It had been months since I’d seen them in person.

Things had been… strained.

They hadn’t liked it when Jason and I split.

They’d liked it even less when I started dating girls.

“Phase,” my mom had said, her voice tight.

“Sin,” my dad had said, his face turning red.

“You’re confusing your child,” my mom had added, shaking her head.

“Jesus doesn’t approve,” my dad had said. “You know that.”

I’d tried to explain that I hadn’t chosen anything.

That I’d spent years praying it away.

That I’d married Jason because I’d been trying to be the daughter they wanted.

“That’s not how this works,” my mother had said, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Marriage is forever. You don’t just break vows because you feel restless.”

“It’s not about being restless,” I’d said. “It’s about being honest. I can’t live a lie anymore. I won’t.”

My father had looked at me with eyes that used to crinkle at the corners when I brought home report cards.

“You’re choosing this,” he’d said. “You’re choosing her over us.”

“I’m choosing myself,” I’d said.

He’d shaken his head.

“You’ll regret it,” he’d said. “And when you do, don’t expect us to pick up the pieces.”

We hadn’t spoken for months.

They’d sent Lily a card on her birthday.

No mention of me.

Just “We love you, Lily. Grandma and Grandpa.”

When I texted them from the ER, I’d done it because… they were still my parents.

Because some part of me was still seven years old, wanting my mom’s hand in my hair and my dad’s lopsided smile and someone older and wiser to tell me what to do.

They hadn’t offered to come then.

But maybe they’d been in shock.

Maybe they were waiting for me to ask.

I stared at the phone.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it before I could talk myself out of it.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Hello?” my mother’s voice came through, slightly echoey, like she was on speakerphone.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s me.”

“I know it’s you,” she said. “How’s Lily?”

“She’s… tired,” I said. “They started treatment. She’s being really brave. She’s… she asked for her pink hoodie. The fuzzy one? I was wondering if you could maybe… bring it up? And some of her books? She’s going to be here awhile.”

There was a pause.

I heard a clink, like a glass being set on a table.

“You mean now?” my mother asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can’t leave her. They don’t want us to. And Jason had to go back to work. I would go get it myself if I could, but—”

Another voice cut in.

My father.

“Emma,” he said. “It’s not that simple.”

“We’re two hours away,” my mother said. “It’s not like we can just drop everything and drive up there every time you need something.”

“I’m not asking you to come every time,” I said, feeling a prickle of heat creep up my neck. “I’m asking if you can come once. Today. Just for a little while. She misses you. She keeps asking when Grandma and Grandpa are coming.”

Silence.

“I told you,” my father said finally, “we’d come next weekend.”

I closed my eyes.

“She’s here now,” I said. “She’s in pain now. She’s scared now. I just… I thought maybe you’d want to see her. In case… in case…”

The words caught in my throat.

I couldn’t say it.

In case she dies.

“We have obligations, Emma,” my mother said. “Your father has work. I have church duties. We can’t just abandon everything every time there’s a crisis in your life.”

“Every time there’s a—” I repeated, my voice going flat. “Mom, my child has cancer. This isn’t me calling you because I broke up with someone. This is… this is your granddaughter. She’s fighting for her life.”

“We know that,” she said. “And we are praying. We are asking God to heal her. That’s the most important thing.”

“It would also be nice if you were here,” I said, my voice cracking. “Just for a little while. She keeps asking for you. She wants her hoodie. She wants her Bible. She wants the teddy bear you gave her when she was a baby. I can’t bring those to her. I can’t leave. I thought… I thought maybe you could.”

There was another pause.

I heard my father sigh.

“We talked to Pastor Rick,” he said. “He said we need to be careful about enabling sin.”

My stomach dropped.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

“If we come up there,” my mother said, “we’d have to stay with you. In your apartment. With her.”

Her.

Naomi.

My girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend.

I didn’t even know what to call her anymore.

She’d tried to come to the hospital the first night.

They’d only let one parent in at a time.

She’d sat in the parking lot in her beat-up Honda for three hours, texting me pictures of Mr. Bun and screenshots of silly cat videos to try to make me smile.

“I wish I could be in there with you,” she’d texted. “I hate this. I hate that you’re alone.”

I’d stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d typed, I’m not alone. I have Lily. That’s all that matters.

I hadn’t added, And you know my parents. If they show up and see you here…

I hadn’t seen much of her since.

She’d backed off, like I’d asked her to.

She’d texted every day.

How is Lily today?
Do you need anything?
I can drop food at the front desk.

I’d answered in bursts.

Busy.
She’s okay today.
Thank you.

I’d said “I love you” once.

Then I’d deleted it.

I didn’t have room in my brain for anything but Lily and chemo schedules and lab results and beeping machines.

Now my mother’s words felt like a bucket of ice over my head.

“Enabling what, exactly?” I asked, my voice going thin.

“You know what,” she said. “We’ve talked about this. We are not going to pretend that lifestyle is okay. We’re not going to sit at your table and act like this is normal. We’re not going to spend the night under the same roof as… that.”

My throat tightened.

“She’s not that,” I said. “Her name is Naomi. She loves Lily. She’s been texting every day to check on her. She offered to drive up and bring us food. She would sleep in her car if I asked her to. She cares.”

“Of course she does,” my mom said. “She wants to keep you hooked. That’s what people like that do. They get their claws into you and they don’t let go.”

“People like what?” I asked, my voice shaking. “You mean gay people?”

“I mean people who live in sin and drag others down with them,” she said. “If we come there and pretend this is okay, we’re telling Lily that it’s okay. And it’s not. We’re not going to be part of that.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

“Are you… are you saying you won’t come see your granddaughter because my girlfriend might be in the same building?” I asked, disbelief sharpening my words.

“We told you,” my father said, “when you moved in with that woman, that it would change things. You made your choice. Now you’re living with the consequences.”

“My choice?” I whispered. “You think I chose this?”

“You chose to walk away from your husband,” my mother said. “You chose to bring a stranger into your daughter’s life. You chose to make everything harder than it had to be. And now you want us to drop everything and rush to your side like nothing happened?”

“Mom,” I said, voice breaking. “She’s seven. She’s scared. She’s bald and hooked up to machines and she’s asking for her grandparents. This isn’t about me. This isn’t about Naomi. This is about Lily. Your granddaughter. The one who used to sleep on your chest during football games. The one who drew you all those pictures and wrote ‘I love you Nana’ in crayon. She needs you.”

“We’ll see her,” my father said. “When we can. On our terms. When it’s appropriate.”

“She might not have ‘when it’s appropriate,’ Dad,” I said, my voice rising. “Do you understand that? Do you understand that there is a non-zero chance that she could die? That I could be sitting in this room holding her hand while she—”

“Don’t say that,” my mother snapped. “Don’t speak that into existence.”

“It’s already in existence,” I said, my words coming faster now, hotter. “Whether we say it or not. The doctors said it. The chemo is dripping into her veins as we speak. This is happening. You refusing to face it doesn’t make it less real.”

“We are facing it,” my father said, his voice rising to match mine. “We are on our knees every night asking God to spare her. We are asking Him to soften your heart. We are asking Him to bring you back to the right path.”

“I don’t need you to pray for me to be straight,” I snapped. “I need you to bring my kid her favorite hoodie.”

Silence crackled on the line.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” my mother said finally. “To watch your child walk away from everything you taught her was right. To feel like you failed. To watch you parade your… choices… in front of your own daughter. And now this. This sickness. You think we’re not asking ourselves if this is some kind of punishment? If God is trying to get your attention?”

For a second, I thought I’d misheard her.

“What did you just say?” I asked, my voice dropping low.

“I’m not saying He did this,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying… we reap what we sow. Sometimes God uses hardship to bring us back to Him. Sometimes he lets things happen to wake us up.”

My vision tunneled.

In the bed next to me, Lily let out a little whimper in her sleep.

I looked at her, pale and fragile and covered in tubes.

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear and lowered my voice to a hiss.

“Are you seriously suggesting,” I asked, each word like broken glass, “that my daughter has cancer because I’m gay?”

“I’m saying sin has consequences,” she said softly. “Yours. Jason’s. The world’s. We don’t always know how it plays out. But yes. Sometimes God allows suffering to draw us back to Him.”

Something in me broke.

Not cracked.

Not dented.

Snapped.

I stood up so fast the recliner rocked back and hit the wall.

“Get this straight,” I said, pacing a tight circle in the little space between the bed and the sink. “My daughter is not your sermon illustration. She is not a Bible lesson. She is not a punishment. She is a little girl with leukemia. There are kids in this hospital whose parents are pastors. Kids whose parents donate half their paycheck to your church. Kids whose families have never so much as missed a Sunday service. Are they being ‘punished’ too?”

“Emma—” my mother started.

“No,” I said. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Do not bring your theology into this room. Do not tell me God did this to my child to get my attention. I have spent my entire life trying to please you, trying to please Him, trying to be good enough. I married a man when I knew in my bones I wasn’t straight because I thought that’s what He wanted. I stayed in a marriage that was killing me because I thought divorce would send me to hell. I was a virgin on my wedding night. I went to church every Sunday. I volunteered. I memorized verses. I tried so hard to be what you wanted.”

“You turned your back on all of that,” she said.

“I stopped pretending,” I said. “There’s a difference. And you know what? For the first time in my life, I felt like I could breathe. I met someone who loved me for me, not for the mask I wore. I watched my daughter light up around her. I saw her learn that love could look like kindness and honesty, not just gritted teeth and staying ‘for the kids.’ And you decided that made me unworthy of your love.”

“That is not fair,” my father said sharply. “We love you. You are our daughter. We always will. But we cannot condone sin. We cannot pretend it’s okay.”

“I’m not asking you to condone anything,” I said. “I’m asking you to bring your granddaughter a hoodie and sit with her for an hour while she gets poison pumped into her veins.”

“And we said,” my mother said, her voice stiff, “we will come when we can. When we can do it in a way that doesn’t compromise our convictions. That’s the best we can offer.”

“Your convictions,” I repeated. “Your principles. Your comfort.”

I laughed.

It came out high and a little wild.

“My kid is seven,” I said. “She doesn’t care who you voted for. She doesn’t care who I sleep with. She doesn’t care about doctrine or theology or ‘lifestyles.’ She cares that her hair is falling out and her stomach hurts and she misses her teddy bear. She cares that her grandparents aren’t here.”

There was a rustle on the line.

“Emma,” my mother said, “you’re being very emotional right now. Maybe—”

“Of course I’m emotional,” I snapped. “My child is sick. I haven’t slept more than two hours at a stretch in five days. I haven’t eaten a real meal that wasn’t from a vending machine. I watch poison drip into her arm and I wonder if it’s going to save her or kill her. And the people who are supposed to be my support system are telling me they can’t come because they don’t want to be in the same room as my girlfriend.”

“She’s not your girlfriend since you broke up,” my father said.

My head whipped around like he was in the room with me.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

Silence.

My stomach dropped.

“You talked to her,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

My mother cleared her throat.

“She called us,” she said. “She was concerned. She said you weren’t letting her help. She was worried about you. About Lily. She wanted us to know.”

I sank onto the edge of the recliner.

“She reached out to you,” I said, my voice hollow.

“Yes,” my mother said. “She told us… things. About your life. Your relationship. Things we didn’t want to know.”

“Like what?” I asked, dread curling in my gut.

“Like how you’ve been living,” she said. “Sharing a bed with another woman. Letting her… influence Lily. Exposing her to… that. And then this happens. And we’re supposed to believe it’s all just… random?”

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Naomi. Sweet, earnest, sometimes-too-honest Naomi.

She must’ve been scared.

She must’ve been desperate.

She’d always believed, deep down, that if my parents could just see her, they’d understand.

She’d grown up in a liberal household where her mom had flown Pride flags in the window and her dad had grilled veggie burgers for her queer friends in the backyard.

She’d believed, naïvely, that everyone’s parents were like that.

She’d called them because she thought, They’re her parents. They’ll show up. They’ll put aside their issues and be here for her.

She hadn’t grown up with my parents’ brand of love.

“If this is about Naomi,” I said slowly, “if this is about me… then fine. Take it out on me. Freeze me out. Ignore my texts. Don’t invite me to Thanksgiving. But leave Lily out of it. Don’t punish her because you don’t like who I love.”

“We’re not punishing her,” my mother said. “We’re protecting her. From confusion. From bad influences. From—”

“You think your absence is less damaging than your presence would be?” I asked. “You think her looking at that empty doorway and asking ‘Where’s Nana? Where’s Grandpa?’ and me having to say ‘They’re too busy’ is better than you coming up here and sitting in a chair and reading her a book?”

“We are not going to be manipulated,” my father said, his voice hardening. “We are not going to be guilted into compromising our beliefs. We have drawn a line. That’s what adults do.”

I stared at the speckled tile floor.

Something inside me that had been straining toward them for years went quiet.

I saw it.

All of it.

The way my mom had “accidentally” forgotten to invite me to the women’s Bible study brunch after Naomi moved in.

The way my dad had started signing his texts “Dad” instead of “Love, Dad.”

The way their calls had gotten less frequent, their visits shorter, their comments more pointed.

I saw the pattern.

I saw where it led.

“I’m not asking you to move in,” I said, my voice suddenly very calm. “I’m not asking you to sleep under the same roof as me. There’s a hotel across the street from the hospital. You could stay there. You could come for an hour. You could sit by her bed and hold her hand and then go back to your room and pray for my soul. I don’t care. I just want her to see your faces.”

“We don’t have that kind of money,” my mother said. “Hotels are expensive. Gas is expensive. Your father’s hours got cut last month. We can’t afford to be driving back and forth.”

I closed my eyes.

“Use the gas card I gave you for Christmas,” I said. “Use the credit card I pay for. I put you on my account for a reason. Use it. I don’t care. I’ll pay the bill. I just… I just need you here.”

Another pause.

“We’re not comfortable with that,” my father said. “We don’t want to be beholden to you. Money complicates things.”

“Of course it does,” I said softly. “Because then you might feel like you owe me something.”

“That’s not fair,” my mother said, her voice tightening. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“No, you’re doing what’s easiest for you,” I said. “You’re choosing your comfort over your granddaughter. Over me.”

“That’s not true,” she protested.

“If it wasn’t true, you’d be in the car already,” I said. “You’d be putting on shoes while we’re talking. You’d be throwing clothes into a bag. You wouldn’t be arguing theology with your daughter while her child is hooked up to a chemo drip.”

“Emma—” my father started.

I stood up.

“I don’t have time for this,” I said, my voice shaking. “Lily could wake up any second. She could throw up again. She could spike a fever. She could… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know anything except that I’m here, and she’s here, and you’re not. And that’s a choice you’re making.”

“We’ll come this weekend,” my mother said. “We promised. We’ll bring the hoodie. We’ll—”

“Don’t,” I said.

Silence.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t come,” I said. “Don’t bring the hoodie. Don’t bring the bear. Don’t show up next weekend like this conversation didn’t happen. Don’t walk into her room with your church casserole and your sad eyes and your Bible verses and act like you weren’t willing to let her sit here for a week without you because you didn’t want to be in the same building as my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what we said,” my father protested.

“It’s exactly what you said,” I replied. “You didn’t say, ‘We can’t.’ You said, ‘We won’t.’ There’s a difference. And I heard you.”

“Emma, don’t do this,” my mother said, her voice rising. “Don’t you dare keep our granddaughter from us because you’re angry.”

“I’m not keeping you from her,” I said. “You’re doing that all by yourself. I’m just… I’m just not going to keep begging you to love her.”

“We do love her,” she insisted.

“Then act like it,” I said. “Or don’t. But don’t expect me to keep pretending this is normal. Don’t expect me to keep sending you pictures and updates like everything’s fine. Don’t expect me to keep trying to bridge a gap you dug yourself.”

“You’re being cruel,” my father said.

I laughed.

It was a hard sound.

“I’m being honest,” I said. “For once. You raised me to tell the truth, remember?”

My mother started to cry.

“You have no idea how much this hurts me,” she said. “To have my own daughter talk to me this way.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Welcome to the club.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear.

“Emma, wait—” my father started.

I hit “End Call.”

The screen went dark.

My hand shook.

I stared at it.

For a second, I thought I might throw up.

Then something warm and sticky slid down the side of my neck.

I touched my skin.

My fingers came away damp.

The smell of coffee hit me again, sharp and bitter, even though it had been hours since that morning’s spill. My body shivered in delayed reaction.

“Excuse me?”

I turned.

A nurse stood in the doorway, her blue scrubs wrinkled, her brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her badge read “MIA RODRIGUEZ, RN.”

She’d been Lily’s day nurse since we arrived.

She’d been the one who’d taught Lily how to push the button to call her if she needed anything.

She’d been the one who’d shown me how to silence the IV pump alarm if it started beeping when I changed Lily’s diaper, “so it doesn’t scare her.”

She’d been the one who’d slipped me an extra blanket when she’d seen me shivering in the recliner at two in the morning.

Now she hovered in the doorway, a styrofoam cup in one hand, a paper bag in the other.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. The walls are paper-thin.”

I swallowed.

“It’s okay,” I said, my voice rough. “Privacy’s a myth here.”

She stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

She held out the bag.

“I was just coming in to drop this off,” she said. “Cafeteria run. Figured you probably hadn’t eaten.”

I stared at the bag.

The smell of french fries wafted up, warm and salty.

My stomach growled.

“I’m not hungry,” I lied automatically.

She arched an eyebrow.

“Your stomach just disagreed,” she said. “Humor me.”

My shoulders sagged.

“Fine,” I muttered.

I took the bag.

Inside was a Styrofoam container, still warm, and a little packet of ketchup.

I opened it.

Chicken strips.

French fries.

A cookie the size of my palm, studded with chocolate chips.

“This is like… actual food,” I said, blinking. “Not… whatever that mystery meat was at lunch.”

She smirked.

“I have my ways,” she said. “Perks of knowing who works what shift in the kitchen. And…” She held up the styrofoam cup. “Decent coffee. Not the sludge from the waiting room.”

My stomach lurched.

The smell of coffee hit me again.

My throat tightened.

I took an involuntary step back.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I just… I can’t…”

She blinked.

Then her eyes flicked to the white bandage peeking out from under my collar.

“That from this morning?” she asked gently.

I nodded.

“Hot chocolate,” I said automatically, the lie falling out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Accident with the machine.”

Her eyebrow slid a fraction higher.

“Huh,” she said. “That’s funny. Because I heard someone in the nurses’ station say a staff sergeant tried to baptize you in Starbucks and you took him on a little field trip to the floor.”

Heat rushed to my face.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said quickly. “I mean—it was, but it wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

She held up a hand.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not here to put it in a chart. I’m just saying… I have a pretty good bull**** detector. And it’s beeping right now.”

I sagged against the counter.

“He poured it on my head,” I said quietly. “On purpose. In front of everyone.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “What an ass.”

I huffed out a shaky laugh.

“Your words, not mine,” I said.

She smiled.

Then her face softened.

“You okay?” she asked.

The question was such a simple one.

It undid me.

The tears I’d been holding back all morning, all weekend, all week, decided they were done being contained.

They rushed up, hot and sudden.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, but it was too late.

The sob burst out anyway.

“I—” I choked. “I’m—I’m fine—I’m—”

“Hey,” she said softly.

She set the coffee cup down on the counter and stepped closer.

“Hey,” she said again. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be fine.”

The words broke something open in my chest.

I’d been holding it together so hard for so long, clenching my jaw and smiling for Lily and nodding at doctors and telling Jason I was okay and texting my parents updates and pretending I wasn’t enraged and exhausted and terrified.

Now, in this tiny room with a stranger who’d seen me at my absolute worst, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

The tears didn’t come as pretty, cinematic streaks.

They came in gasps.

Ugly, hiccuping sobs that made my whole body shake.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m making it weird. I don’t—”

“Shh,” she said.

She stepped a little closer and, very gently, put a hand on my shoulder.

I froze.

Then, slowly, I let myself lean into it.

The contact was like a lifeline.

Warm, solid, real.

“You had boiling hot coffee poured on your head,” she said softly. “Your kid is going through chemo. Your parents are being… themselves. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to be exhausted. You’re allowed to be human.”

I let out a shaky laugh.

“You should tell that to my dad,” I muttered. “He seems to think I’m a robot with a Bible verse for a motherboard.”

She snorted.

“Yeah, well,” she said, “from what I overheard, your dad can come down here and try telling me that to my face. I’ll see how that goes.”

I stared at her, startled.

She shrugged.

“I may look cute,” she said, “but I grew up with four older brothers and a grandpa who wrestled bulls for fun. I’ve seen worse than a grumpy old man with a cross around his neck.”

Despite myself, I laughed.

It felt good.

We stood there for a minute, the sounds of the hospital humming around us: monitors beeping, carts rolling, a baby crying down the hall.

In the bed, Lily snuffled and rolled over, her IV pump beeping softly until Mia silenced it with a practiced hand.

“She’s a tough kid,” Mia said, glancing at her. “She’s got that look.”

“What look?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

“The ‘I’m going to do this my way’ look,” she said. “I see it a lot on this floor. It’s a good sign.”

I swallowed.

“Good,” I said. “She’s always been stubborn.”

“Wonder where she gets that from,” Mia said lightly.

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s probably from her dad,” I said automatically.

Mia arched an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Sure.”

I huffed out a breath.

Silence lapped at us again.

“She asked for her hoodie,” I said quietly. “And her books. I can’t leave to get them.”

Mia nodded.

“You got someone who can bring them?” she asked. “A friend? Neighbor? Someone who owes you a favor?”

I swallowed.

“I… I called my parents,” I said. “I thought…”

I trailed off.

She raised her eyebrows.

“And?” she prompted.

“They said no,” I said.

Her eyes widened.

“What?” she asked. “Why?”

“Because my girlfriend lives with me,” I said, the word catching in my throat. “And they don’t want to ‘enable sin.’ And because gas is expensive. And because my dad has work and my mom has Bible study and they promised their pastor they’d be there to help with the women’s luncheon on Saturday.”

Mia stared at me.

“For real?” she asked. “They said that?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “They also implied that Lily having cancer might be God trying to get my attention.”

Her face shifted.

Something like fury flashed through her eyes.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Wow. That’s… not okay.”

“I know,” I said, my voice cracking. “I know. I know. But they’re my parents. I keep thinking… maybe if I say it the right way, they’ll get it. Maybe if they see her, they’ll… I don’t know. Wake up.”

“And in the meantime,” Mia said gently, “you’re standing here begging them for crumbs while you’re running on fumes, covered in coffee burns, trying to be everything for everyone.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said softly. “You know that, right? You’re allowed to let people show you who they are. And then believe them.”

I let the words sink in.

Let them bump up against everything I’d been raised to believe.

Honor your father and mother.

Turn the other cheek.

Love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

I thought about my mother’s voice on the phone, talking about punishment and enabling sin.

I thought about my father’s warning years ago: When you fall, don’t come running to us.

I thought about the way I’d felt when I hung up on them.

Like I’d stepped off a cliff.

Terrified.

And somehow… weirdly… lighter.

“I told them not to come,” I said quietly. “I told them… if they can’t come now, they shouldn’t come at all.”

Mia nodded slowly.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked.

I let out a breath.

“Like I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Like I just set my whole life on fire. Like I’m the worst daughter in the world. And also…”

I swallowed.

“And also like maybe…” I took a shaky breath. “Like maybe I finally did the thing I should have done a long time ago. Like I finally picked a side.”

“And whose side did you pick?” she asked.

I looked at Lily.

Her small hand twitched in her sleep, fingers curling around Mr. Bun’s ear.

“I picked hers,” I said.

“And yours,” Mia said softly.

I looked at her.

She shrugged.

“You picked not to let their rules matter more than your kid’s needs,” she said. “You picked not to let them make you feel like you’re a bad mom because you won’t jump through their hoops. You picked you. That’s not selfish. That’s… survival.”

A lump rose in my throat.

She sat down on the edge of the other chair.

“Listen,” she said. “You don’t know me. I’m just the lady who brings the good Jell-O. I don’t want to overstep. But… I’ve been doing this for a while. I’ve seen a lot of families go through what you’re going through. And I can tell you this: the ones who make it out the other side, whether their kid gets better or…” She paused, swallowed. “Or doesn’t… they’re the ones who figure out who’s really in their corner and who’s not. They’re the ones who let the people who show up, show up. And they stop begging the people who don’t.”

I thought about Naomi again.

About the way I’d kept her at arm’s length.

About the text messages piling up on my phone.

Ate dinner. Thinking of you both.
How’s our girl?
I saw this stupid TikTok and it made me think of Lily. Want me to send it?
I’m outside with Starbucks and your favorite muffins. I’ll leave them at the front desk if you want.

I’d read them.

I’d smiled.

And then I’d put my phone face down and stared at the wall until my eyes burned.

“You got people,” Mia said softly. “I can see it. That guy who was just here—Jason? He’s trying. That’s something. This Naomi… she’s trying. That’s something. Your parents… might get there. They might not. That sucks. I’m sorry. But in the meantime? You got us.”

She gestured around the room.

“Me,” she said. “The night nurse. The child life team. The social worker who’s going to bug you about eating and sleeping and billing. The other moms on this floor who will teach you how to sleep in a recliner without wrecking your back. The volunteer who comes around with the therapy dogs.”

She smiled.

“We’re here,” she said. “We’re in your corner. Whether you like it or not.”

A tear slid down my cheek.

“Why?” I asked, my voice small. “You don’t even know me.”

She shrugged.

“Because she’s ours now,” she said, nodding at Lily. “That’s how it works. You cross that threshold, you’re family. You’re in the club. We look out for our own.”

I let out a shaky laugh.

“What club?” I asked. “The cancer mom club?”

She grimaced.

“It’s not one anyone wants to join,” she said. “But yeah. Once you’re in, you don’t have to do it alone.”

She leaned forward.

“Look,” she said. “I know it’s not the same as your parents. I’m not going to pretend it is. But sometimes… family is the people who show up when it’s hard. Not the people who share your DNA.”

I thought about the way my mother’s voice had sounded on the phone.

About the way my father had said “your choice” like it was a curse.

I thought about the way Mia had walked in with a bag of hot food and a cup of coffee and a willingness to listen.

“You’re awfully wise for someone who wears cartoon bandaids on her badge,” I said, nodding toward the little rocket ship stuck to her ID.

She grinned.

“Occupational hazard,” she said. “You hang out with kids all day, you either learn some stuff or you drown.”

She glanced at her watch.

“I’ve got to go check on my other kiddos,” she said, standing. “But I’m back on tonight. You need anything, you hit that call button. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” I said.

She hesitated at the door.

“Oh, and hey,” she said, snapping her fingers. “What size is she?”

“Who?” I asked, thrown.

“Lily,” she said. “For the hoodie. And maybe some pajamas. I’m not promising anything, but… I’ve got sisters. Sisters have closets. I’m sure we can scrounge up something soft and pink and ridiculous.”

My throat tightened.

“You don’t have to—” I started.

She waved me off.

“I know I don’t have to,” she said. “I want to. Let me. Don’t argue. I win arguments professionally. You’ll lose.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

“Seven-eight,” I said. “She likes anything with cats. Or unicorns. Or both. The more glitter, the better.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh, I got you,” she said. “You’re going to regret telling me that. Her wardrobe is about to be eighty percent sparkles.”

She winked.

“See you in a bit.”

The door closed behind her.

The room felt different.

Not bigger.

Not brighter.

Just… less heavy.

I sank back into the recliner.

Picked up the french fry.

Bit into it.

It was soggy, but it tasted like heaven.

I ate.

I texted Jason.

Me: Someone just brought me actual food.

Jason: Good. Eat. You can’t pour from an empty cup.

I stared at the word “cup” for a second.

Then I took a deep breath.

I unlocked my phone.

Scrolled to Naomi’s name.

There were three unread messages.

Hey. Thinking of you.
I saw on Facebook that Lily likes those rainbow pop-it things? I found some. Want me to mail them?
I don’t know if you want space or not. I’m trying to respect that. I just… I’m here. For whatever you need. Even if it’s just memes.

My chest ached.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Me: Hey.

A dot popped up almost immediately.

Naomi: Hey.

Naomi: How is she?

I glanced at Lily, still asleep, her chest rising and falling under the thin hospital blanket.

Me: Tired. Chemo started. She’s a trooper.

Naomi: Of course she is. She’s her mother’s daughter. 💪

I swallowed.

My eyes stung.

Me: I did a thing.

Naomi: Uh-oh. What kind of thing?

Me: Called my parents. Asked them to bring her hoodie.

Naomi: Oh.

Naomi: How’d that go?

I stared at the screen.

Me: About as well as a dumpster fire in a fireworks factory.

There was a pause.

Three dots.

Stop.

Three dots again.

Naomi: I’m sorry.

Naomi: I… I called them last week. When you weren’t answering my texts. I thought maybe… idk. I’m sorry if I made it worse.

I let out a shaky laugh.

Me: Yeah, they mentioned.

Naomi: Shit.

Naomi: I just… I didn’t know what to do. I thought… they’re her grandparents. I thought they’d want to know. I thought they’d rush up there and then you’d have help. I thought if they saw you and Lily and… maybe they’d soften.

Naomi: I’m so sorry if I stepped out of line.

I stared at the words.

She’d been trying to help.

She hadn’t been trying to sabotage me.

She’d been doing what my parents should’ve done.

She’d reached out.

I’d pushed her away.

Me: You didn’t make it worse.

Me: They did that all by themselves.

There was a pause.

Naomi: Are you okay?

Me: No.

Me: But I’m… here. And so is she.

Naomi: Do you want me to come up?

The question hung there.

I thought about my parents’ voices in my head.

About my father’s warning.

About my mother’s tears.

About Dr. Porter’s words in that story I’d once read online, the one about the woman whose family refused to come see her sick kid because of her “choices.”

I thought about the way it had ended.

How she’d chosen her kid.

How she’d built a new kind of family.

I thought about Mia’s words.

Sometimes, family is the people who show up.

Naomi had been trying to show up.

I’d been the one stopping her.

I looked at Lily.

At the IV in her hand.

At the faint fuzz where her hair had already started to fall.

At the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm, threadbare from years of love.

She needed all the love she could get.

So did I.

I took a deep breath.

Me: Yeah.

Naomi: Yeah?

Me: Yeah. Can you bring her pink hoodie? It’s in the bottom drawer. And her cat pajamas. And Mr. Bun’s backup. Just in case.

There was a beat.

Then:

Naomi: On it.

Naomi: I’ll be there in 2 hrs.

Naomi: Also I’m stopping for snacks. Any requests?

My stomach growled.

I looked at the half-eaten chicken strip in my hand.

Me: Anything that isn’t from a vending machine.

Naomi: Say less.

Naomi: I’m so proud of you, btw.

Me: For what?

Naomi: For telling them no.

Tears pricked my eyes.

Naomi: For choosing her.

Naomi: And you.

I wiped my cheeks.

Me: I’m scared.

Naomi: Me too.

Naomi: Maybe we can be scared together.

I stared at the screen.

At the little heart she’d added after her last message.

At the tiny gift box emoji.

At the blinking cursor.

I thought about my mother’s voice, telling me God was using my child’s illness to punish me.

I thought about my father’s voice, telling me this was my choice.

Maybe they were right about one thing.

Maybe it was my choice.

Maybe it always had been.

Maybe this was my chance to choose something different.

To choose softness over hardness.

Honesty over pretense.

Boundary over begging.

Love over fear.

I looked at Lily.

At the IV taped to her small hand.

At the monitor quietly chirping next to her bed.

At the pink hoodie that wasn’t there.

Soon, it would be.

Not because my parents had decided to show up.

But because someone else had.

I took a deep breath.

Typed one more text.

Me: I love you.

There was a long pause.

Then:

Naomi: I love you too.

Naomi: See you soon.

Two hours later, the door to Lily’s room cracked open again.

Naomi slipped in, a little out of breath, her curly hair twisted into a messy bun, a tote bag slung over her shoulder.

She held up a pink blur triumphantly.

“Guess who has the world’s fluffiest hoodie?” she whispered.

Lily’s eyes, half-lidded, blinked open.

“Naomi?” she croaked.

Naomi’s face softened.

“Hey, bug,” she whispered.

She moved to the bed, careful not to jostle any wires.

She spread the hoodie over Lily like a blanket, tucking it around her shoulders.

“It’s so soft,” Lily mumbled, burying her face in the fuzzy fabric. “It smells like home.”

Naomi smiled.

“I spritzed it with your pillow spray,” she said. “The purple one. The one that makes your mom sneeze.”

Lily giggled weakly.

Naomi looked up at me.

Her eyes skimmed over the bandage on my neck, the redness peeking out from under it, the shadows under my eyes.

Her face crumpled.

“Oh, Em,” she whispered.

I swallowed.

“I’m okay,” I lied.

She set the tote bag down and stepped toward me.

“Liar,” she said softly.

She reached up, hesitated.

I nodded.

She wrapped her arms around me.

For a second, my body stiffened.

Old habits.

Then I let myself sink into it.

She smelled like lavender and coffee and something sweet, like vanilla.

Not like hospital.

Not like bleach.

Not like fear.

I let my forehead drop to her shoulder.

For the first time in days, I let myself lean on someone who wasn’t on shift.

“You’re here,” I whispered.

“Of course I’m here,” she murmured. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

I thought about my parents.

About their empty promises.

About my mother’s tears and my father’s anger.

About the space they’d left in my life.

I thought about Mia’s words.

Sometimes, family is the people who show up.

Naomi had shown up.

So had Jason, even if he could only do it in bursts.

So had Mia.

So had the volunteer who’d brought Lily a coloring book.

So had the night custodian who’d left a little origami crane on her tray “for luck.”

Love was here.

It just didn’t look the way my parents thought it should.

Lily stirred.

“Mommy?” she mumbled.

I pulled back, wiping my eyes quickly.

“Yeah, baby?” I said.

She blinked up at us, her brown eyes cloudy with sleep but still so very her.

“Did you get my hoodie?” she asked.

Naomi grinned.

“See?” she said. “I told you I’d bring it.”

Lily smiled faintly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Anytime, kiddo,” Naomi said. “You know I’d fight a dragon for you.”

Lily’s smile widened just a little.

“Can you… can you read to me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Naomi’s face softened.

“Of course,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Kitty book,” Lily said.

Naomi reached into the tote bag and pulled out a battered copy of Socks, the old Beverly Cleary paperback my mom had given me when I was eight.

It had moved with me from apartment to apartment, from college dorms to my first tiny one-bedroom, to the house Jason and I had shared, to the little duplex Naomi and I had painted together.

“Good choice,” Naomi said, settling into the chair on the other side of the bed. “This one’s a classic.”

She opened the book.

Her voice slid into the room, warm and steady, wrapping around us like another blanket.

I sank into the recliner.

I watched my daughter’s eyes flutter as she listened.

Watched her fingers curl around the edge of the hoodie.

Watched the tension slowly ease out of her little shoulders.

The monitors hummed.

The fluorescent lights flickered.

Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried.

Somewhere else, a doctor delivered news that would change someone’s life.

Somewhere miles away, my parents finished dinner, rinsed dishes, turned on the TV, maybe prayed for their granddaughter’s health and their daughter’s soul, convinced they were doing the right thing.

In our little room, the argument I’d had with them still hung in the air, raw and unfinished.

But it wasn’t the loudest thing anymore.

The loudest thing was the soft sound of a woman I loved reading to a child we both adored.

The soft rasp of Lily’s breathing as she drifted off.

The quiet hum of a nurse humming along to some song only she could hear as she checked the IV.

The whisper of my own heartbeat slowing, just a little.

People talk about big, cinematic moments of bravery.

Standing on tables.

Screaming speeches.

Dramatic confrontations in hospital corridors.

And yeah, sometimes it looks like that.

Sometimes it looks like a daughter finally telling her parents, No. Enough.

Sometimes it looks like a staff sergeant getting knocked on his ass in a mess hall.

But more often, I think, courage looks like this.

Like showing up.

Like calling someone back even when you’re afraid.

Like letting a nurse bring you chicken strips and then actually eating them.

Like letting a woman into your hospital room even when you know it will make certain people furious.

Like choosing, over and over, to put your child’s needs—and your own sanity—above someone else’s comfort.

I don’t know what the future holds.

I don’t know if Lily will beat this.

I don’t know if my parents will ever soften.

I don’t know if the scar on my neck will fade or if the memory of coffee on my scalp will ever stop making me flinch when someone raises a hand too fast.

I do know this:

When the worst thing I could imagine happened, the people who showed up weren’t necessarily the ones I’d been taught to rely on.

They were nurses and ex-husbands and girlfriends and preschool teachers and kids from Lily’s class who sent crayon drawings and crooked smiles.

They were strangers who donated to our GoFundMe.

They were the old guy at the gas station who saw the hospital parking permit on my dashboard and quietly slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, whispering, “For coffee, honey,” before shuffling away.

They were the ones who didn’t ask if I’d learned my lesson or if I was ready to come “back to God.”

They were the ones who just sat down in the uncomfortable vinyl chair and held my hand.

They were the ones who brought hoodies and coloring books and french fries and decent coffee.

They were the ones who didn’t care who I loved.

Only that I loved my kid.

Only that she was hurting.

Only that I was tired.

Only that we were human.

And in that tired, messy, fluorescent-lit corner of the world, that was enough.

It had to be.

It still does.

So when people ask me now—months later, when Lily’s hair is just starting to fuzz back in patches, when the scans show more white space and fewer dark spots, when we’re cautiously using words like “remission” and “maintenance”—if I regret what I said to my parents that day, I tell them the truth.

I tell them it still hurts.

That there are days I scroll past old family photos and my chest aches.

That there are nights I lie awake and wonder if I was too harsh, if I could have been gentler, if there was a way to draw a line without burning the bridge.

I tell them I’m still figuring it out.

That I still flinch when my phone buzzes with a text from my mother, because I never know if it’s going to be a picture of her garden or a Bible verse about repentance.

I tell them I don’t have it all wrapped up in a neat little moral.

But I also tell them this:

When my daughter wakes up from a nightmare at three in the morning, sweaty and shaking, and whispers, “Mommy?” I am there.

When she throws up into the pink plastic bucket and sobs, “It hurts,” I am there.

When she laughs at something ridiculous on TV and then looks over to see if I’m laughing too, I am there.

When she holds out her hand and says, “Stay,” I am there.

And when my parents call and say, “We’re coming up this weekend after all; Pastor Rick says maybe we misheard God,” I take a breath.

I look at my daughter.

I look at my life.

I remember the argument in the hospital.

I remember the way my neck burned and my heart pounded and my voice finally came out clear.

And I say, calmly,

“No, thank you. We’re okay.”

Because we are.

We’re not okay because everything turned out exactly the way I would’ve chosen.

We’re not okay because cancer is easy or family estrangement is painless or hospital coffee suddenly tastes good.

We’re okay because we found people who show up.

Because we found a new definition of family.

Because I stopped begging people to prove they loved us and started paying attention to the ones who already did.

Because when push came to shove—to be honest, literal shove—I learned I was capable of more than I thought.

Not just of throwing a grown man across a room.

But of standing my ground in other ways.

Of saying no.

Of choosing my child.

Of choosing myself.

In the end, that’s the only choice that mattered.

That’s the only one that ever will.

And if my parents can’t understand that… if they see my daughter’s illness as a spiritual object lesson instead of the brutal fluke of biology it is… if they keep their distance because being near us makes their theology uncomfortable…

That’s on them.

Not me.

Not Lily.

As for us?

We’ll be here.

In this house that still smells faintly like hospital soap and french fries and grape-flavored medicine.

Wearing fuzzy pink hoodies and cat pajamas.

Reading Socks for the hundredth time.

Letting people who show up—really show up—pull up a chair.

And when the next crisis hits, because life guarantees that it will, we’ll face it the way we faced this one.

Scared.

Shaking.