Chapter 3

There was only one month left until the three-month deadline. Mom's enthusiasm for steamed apples kept growing.

Her spirits were visibly lifted. She used to get winded after a few steps, but now she could walk two or three laps around the neighborhood park every evening after dinner. She even picked up dancing with neighbors.

Watching her stretching and moving among the crowd, her face glowing with a smile I hadn't seen in ages, I had mixed feelings. On one hand, I was genuinely happy for her; on the other, it all felt a bit unreal.

Could steamed apples really be that miraculous? My heart was torn between believing in science and hoping for a miracle.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, I decided to dig deeper. While Mom was out square dancing, I quietly slipped into her room.

Her room was simple, a bed, a wardrobe, and an old-fashioned dresser. After Dad passed away, a lot of things were packed away, leaving the room feeling empty.

My target was the dresser. I had a hunch that Mom's secret might be hidden inside.

I gently opened the first drawer, then the second, then the third. Inside were old photos and random bits and pieces.

When I got to the bottom drawer, my hand stopped mid-motion. In the corner sat an old paper envelope, yellowed with age. It looked like it had been there forever.

My heart suddenly raced. I knew the answer I was searching for was inside.

I pulled out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a stack of hospital test reports and medical records.

I glanced at the name. It was Mom's. The date was a year and a half ago, right after Dad passed away.

My hands trembled as I flipped to the first page. It was a CT scan report. I couldn't make sense of all the medical jargon, but the words in the conclusion section hit me.

It read: [Hepatic space-occupying lesion, malignancy suspected. Further biopsy recommended.]

My head buzzed, and everything went black for a moment. I grabbed onto the dresser to steady myself. How is this possible? I never knew about this.

I kept flipping through the pages. There were more reports, blood tests, and ultrasounds. Every report seemed to spell out something awful.

Finally, I found a handwritten medical file. The handwriting was messy, but the meaning was clear as day. [Diagnosis: early liver cancer, plus serious cirrhosis.]

The doctor said surgery was way too risky because of the cirrhosis, and the chances of success were low. He suggested palliative care, or maybe a liver transplant, but that would cost a fortune, and who knows how long it'd take to find a donor.

At the end, Mom had signed her name. Underneath, in tiny handwriting, it said: [Patient refuses all aggressive treatments, wants to leave the hospital.] The date? Exactly one year ago today.

My tears burst forth like a broken dam.

So this was the secret she'd been hiding. A year ago, she walked out of the hospital alone, holding that death sentence in her hands. She never breathed a word to anyone.

She carried this enormous burden all by herself, acting like everything was normal, shopping for groceries, cooking meals, and fussing over me to make sure I dressed warmly when the weather turned cold.

Thinking back to that time, Dad had passed, and I was lost in my own grief. My job was a mess, and I was stumbling through life. I assumed Mom was like me, that she only needed time to heal.

I even complained she wasn't strong enough, that she couldn't pull herself together like other moms and become the backbone of the family.

I was such a jerk, so selfish, so stupid. When she needed me the most, I was clueless. I didn't do a damn thing.

No wonder she looked so exhausted and withdrawn back then. No wonder she hated hospitals so much. No wonder she suddenly got hooked on steamed apples.

Now I finally understood. This wasn't some blind attempt at healthy living. She was trying to save herself. She was using the only thing she could think of, maybe some folk remedy she'd heard about, desperately trying to outrun death.

She turned down treatment, not out of stubbornness or fear, but because of money. She didn't want to drag me down with her. Dad's illness had already wiped out everything we had and left us drowning in debt.

She knew that if she collapsed too, our family would be done for.

I crouched on the floor, clutching the stack of medical records, sobbing uncontrollably.

All those stubborn moments I never got, all the superstitions I used to mock. Now it all made sense. Every steamed apple was her way of clinging to life and her love for me, so deep she never spoke of it.

I hated myself. I even hid her apples, fought with her, and pushed her into that stupid three-month promise. While she was fighting for her life, I was busy acting like some self-righteous guardian of science, trying to snuff out her only hope.

I had no clue how long I'd been crying. It wasn't until the music from the dancing downstairs faded that I realized Mom was about to come home.

I quickly wiped my tears, carefully tucked the medical records and reports back into the old envelope, and slid it deep into the drawer, like before.

I couldn't let her know I'd found out her secret, not yet. If she wanted to keep it from me, I'd play along with her.

I walked out of her room, washed my face, and tried to make myself look normal again.

The door swung open, and Mom walked in, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead and her cheeks glowing from the workout.

"Selena, you're home," she smiled.

"Yeah, Mom. Did you have fun dancing?" I went over and took her cup from her hand.

"I did. Got all sweaty, feels so much better," she replied.

Looking at her smiling face, it felt like my heart was being ripped apart. My mom, so ordinary, so stubborn, was carrying the weight of the world for me, with a kind of silent, brave determination.

From today on, I wasn't a bystander or a doubter anymore. I was going to be her ally. That three-month promise wasn't some gamble about who's right or wrong.

It was my one and only hope. I'm desperately waiting for that day to come. I'm praying like crazy that a miracle will really happen.