Our parents defended her. The next time they saw me, it was already too late.
I held my daughter’s hand while the machines beeped their steady rhythm. Grace was 3 years old, and her fingers were so small they barely wrapped around my thumb. The pediatric oncology wards smelled like antiseptic and artificial hope, and I had memorized every crack in the ceiling tiles above her bed.
“Mommy, can we go to the park when I feel better?” Grace whispered, her voice scratchy from the breathing tube they had removed that morning.
“Absolutely, sweetheart,” I said, brushing her thin hair back from her forehead. “Well go on the swings just like before.”
Grace smiled, and for a moment I could pretend that the cancer ravaging her tiny body was just a nightmare I would wake from. But the doctors had been clear during their last meeting with me. Stage four neuroblastto. The experimental treatment had failed. We were looking at weeks now, maybe days.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. Nothing mattered except this moment. This hand in mine. this precious child who had turned my world from black and white into brilliant color the moment she was born.
The phone buzzed again and again.
“You can check it, mommy,” Grace said. “I’m okay.”
I pulled out my phone, expecting messages from my supervisor at the community health clinic where I worked as a nurse. Instead, I saw 17 messages from my sister, Vanessa. The first one made my stomach drop.
Mera, I know this is hard for you, but I really need you to be there for my housewarming party. I finally bought my dream house.
I stared at the screen. Vanessa knew Grace was dying. She had visited exactly once in the past 6 months, staying for 20 minutes before complaining about hospital parking fees.
I scrolled through the other messages. Each one was more insistent than the last.
Mom and dad are flying in for it. Everyone will be there. I’m thinking June 15th. Does that work for you? You’ve been so focused on grace. I know you need this distraction.
June 15th.
I looked at my daughter, watched her chest rise and fall with effort. The doctors had given us until midJune at best. My sister wanted to celebrate her new house during the time I would be burying my child.
I did not respond. I put my phone away and sang Grace’s favorite lullabi until she fell asleep.
That evening, I called Vanessa from the hospital cafeteria. she answered on the first ring, her voice bright and eager.
“Meera, did you see my messages? Isn’t it exciting? The house has four bedrooms and a pool. Can you imagine?”
“Vanessa, I can’t talk about party planning right now. Grace is—”
“I know, I know, but you can’t put your whole life on hold forever. This is a huge milestone for me, and I need my sister there.”
I closed my eyes. Vanessa had always been like this. Everything was about her. When I got married, she announced her engagement at my reception. When I graduated nursing school, she showed up late and spent dinner talking about her promotion at the pharmaceutical sales company where she worked.
“What date were you thinking?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“June 15th. It’s perfect. Summer weather. Everyone’s available. Mom and dad are so excited. They’re already booking their flights from Phoenix.”
“That’s when Grace might—” My voice cracked. “The doctor said we’re looking at early to mid June. I might be planning a funeral then. Vanessa.”
Silence stretched between us. Then Vanessa sighed. The kind of sigh that said I was being difficult.
“Meera. I understand you’re going through something awful. I really do. But life goes on, you know, and you can’t expect everyone to put their lives on hold indefinitely. If something happens with grace, we can work around it. But I’ve already put deposits down with caterers. The invitations are at the printer.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
“You’re saying your housewarming party is more important than my daughter’s life?”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. Don’t twist my words. I’m saying we can’t live in limbo forever. And honestly, you might need the distraction. When was the last time you did something for yourself?”
I hung up. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
Grace died on June 9th just after sunrise. I was holding her hand. She opened her eyes one last time, smiled at me, and whispered, “I love you, Mommy.” Then she was gone, and the machine started screaming, and nurses rushed in, and someone was pulling me away from my daughter’s body, and I could not breathe.
The funeral was set for June 15th. It was the earliest date the funeral home could arrange everything.
I called my parents that evening, my voice hollow.
“The funeral is on the 15th,” I said. “Grace’s funeral.”
My mother was quiet for a moment.
