Part 2: "You don't get to look better than her," her father growled as he forced electric clippers into her hands to shave her head while her sister laughed.

The thin black wig cap sat on my dresser like a small, dead thing.

I looked at it, then at my mother standing in the doorway. She had her arms folded across her chest, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater—one of three new ones she’d bought herself during what she called her "caretaker stress therapy."

"An appointment for what?" she asked. Her voice carried that flat, dangerous pitch that signaled any answer I gave would be evaluated for selfishness.

"A pre-k consultation for Ethan," I said, zipping up my jeans. "The director at St. Mark’s has an opening at ten o'clock. I’ve been on the waitlist for four months."

Mom scoffed. "Call them and reschedule."

"You don't reschedule St. Mark's, Mom. If you miss the slot, you go to the bottom of the list. Ethan starts school in August."

"Megan," she said, her tone dropping an octave into the rehearsed solemnity she used whenever she spoke about Claire’s health. "Your sister hasn't eaten a solid meal in two days. The chemo has her nauseous, and the only thing she said sounded appetizing was the spicy salmon roll from Nami. Do you really want to explain to your father why you put a four-year-old’s finger-painting interview over your sister’s nutrition?"

I stared at her. The navy scarf was tied tightly around my head, the silk smooth against my scalp where the hair had barely begun to grow back in a rough, uneven fuzz. It had been six weeks since the bathroom floor. Six weeks of staring in the mirror every morning and seeing a stranger—a pale, hollow-eyed woman who looked like she was the one undergoing radiation.

"Nami doesn't open until eleven-thirty anyway," I said, trying to keep my voice flat, neutral, empty of the rage threatening to choke me. "I can go to the appointment at ten, finish by eleven, drive to Nami, and have the food back here by noon."

"That’s cutting it too close," Mom snapped. "What if there’s traffic? What if the line is long? Claire is weak now. She needs to know we’re on top of things."

"I am going to Ethan’s appointment."

Mom stepped into the room. She didn't look angry so much as deeply, genuinely offended that the gears of her machine weren't turning smoothly.

"You’re changing, Megan," she said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "Ever since Claire got sick, you’ve been acting like every little favor is an unbearable sacrifice. Your father notices it. I notice it. You’re resentful. It’s ugly."

"I shaved my head, Mom."

The words came out before I could stop them. They weren't loud, but they hung in the small, sunlit room like smoke.

Mom didn't flinch. She didn't look away.

"And you’ve made sure everyone knows it, haven't you?" she sneered softly. "Walking around in those pathetic scarves, looking like a martyr. You think you’re the only one suffering? Your sister is fighting cancer, Megan. You lost some hair. Get over yourself."

She turned on her heel and walked out, slamming my bedroom door hard enough to rattle the framed print of Ethan’s footstep paintings on the wall.

I sat down on the edge of my bed. My knees were shaking.

From across the hall, I heard Ethan’s door creak open. He peeked his little head out, his dark curly hair messy from sleep, holding his frayed blue blanket against his chin.

"Mommy?" he asked softly. "Is Grandma mad?"

I forced my hands to stop trembling, stood up, and walked over to him. I dropped to my knees, taking his small, warm hands in mine, and swallowed the iron taste of hatred that had risen in my throat.

"Grandma is just busy, sweetie," I murmured, pressing my forehead against his. "Come on. Let's get your shoes on. We’re going to look at your new school."

I took Ethan to his appointment. He loved the classroom with the big wooden blocks and the fish tank. He smiled at the teacher. He held my hand as we walked through the playground, pointing at the yellow slide.

At 11:15, I drove to Nami. I stood in the cold wind outside the restaurant until the neon Open sign flickered on. I bought the spicy salmon roll, three orders of miso soup, and extra ginger. I paid with my own credit card—the same card I used for Claire’s prescriptions, for Ethan’s pull-ups, for the groceries I bought every Tuesday because Mom "forgot" to restock the fridge.

I drove back to my parents' house.

When I walked through the front door at 12:04 PM, Dad was standing in the foyer wearing his golf shirt. He looked at his watch, then looked at me.

"She’s asleep now," he said coldly. "She waited an hour, got nauseous from resting on an empty stomach, and took a Compazine. She’s out for the afternoon."

I held out the white paper bag with the green Nami logo. "It’s here. It’s still hot."

Dad didn't reach for the bag. He stepped right up to me, his broad frame blocking the light from the front door, just like he’d blocked the bathroom doorway six weeks ago.

"You know," he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, "when your mother told me you refused to go right away, I didn't believe her. I thought, No, Megan is difficult, but she isn't cruel. I guess I was wrong."

"I had an appointment for Ethan, Dad. I told Mom—"

"Ethan is four!" Dad barked, his voice cracking like a whip through the quiet house. "He doesn't care what preschool he goes to! Your sister is battling a life-threatening illness, and you’re prioritizing daycare interviews!"

"It’s not daycare, it’s—"

"I don't give a damn what it is!" He reached out and snatched the paper bag from my hand, throwing it violently into the entryway trash can. The container tipped over, spilling miso soup across the hardwood floor.

The hot, salty broth pooled around his pristine leather loafers.

"Clean that up," he said, turning his back on me. "And then get out of my sight."

I stood there, looking at the soup soaking into the oak floorboards. I looked at the trash can. I looked at the stairs leading up to the room where my sister was sleeping off a pill I had picked up for her three days ago.

I didn't bend down.

I didn't grab a paper towel.

I walked past the mess, picked up my purse from the entry table, took Ethan by the hand, and walked out the door.

I didn't turn back when Dad yelled my name from the porch. I didn't stop when the cold rain began to fall, speckling the shoulders of my jacket. I put Ethan in his car seat, buckled him in, sat in the driver’s seat, and locked the doors.

My hands were perfectly steady as I put the key in the ignition.

The crying would come later. But right then, sitting in the driveway of the house where I had spent twenty-six years being chipped away into nothing, a cold, hard stone settled in my chest.