The fourth chemo session was easier.
Not easy.
Just easier.
There was a difference now subtle but undeniable in the way the hospital room felt.
The fear that had lived there in the beginning, heavy and breathless and waiting for disaster, had thinned into something quieter. Still present. Still real. But no longer swallowing everything else whole.
Their mother complained more.
Which, according to both Leo and Lila, was a very good sign.
"The tea tastes like boiled disappointment," she informed them one Tuesday morning.
Leo looked up from the paperwork in his lap. "That's actually the hospital slogan."
Lila snorted into her juice box.
Their mother gave them both a deeply unimpressed look before adjusting the blanket around herself with slow care.
The chemo had taken weight from her face. Her hair had started thinning enough that strands collected on her pillow now, quiet evidence of what the treatment was costing her.
