Chapter 9 - SILVER MORNING
At twenty weeks, the tumor finally began shrinking.
Not enough for celebration.
Enough for cautious optimism.
Emily was discharged between treatments.
She asked me to take her home.
We ended up in the nursery.
White walls.
Again.
She handed me a paint roller.
“What are we doing?”
“Committing to poor decision-making.”
Then she opened a can.
Silver Morning.
I laughed.
“You still have this?”
“I bought it yesterday.”
“You hated that room.”
“I hated the white.”
So we painted.
Slowly.
Emily sat more than she worked.
I did the high corners.
She criticized my technique from a chair.
“You’re leaving lines.”
“I commanded battalions.”
“Apparently none of them taught you edges.”
I smiled.
She smiled.
Then suddenly she began crying.
I put the roller down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I waited.
She looked around.
“I didn’t think I’d get to do this again.”
I sat beside her.
“We don’t know what happens.”
“I know.”
“We’re allowed to be scared.”
“I know.”
“And still paint.”
Emily nodded.
“Still paint.”
That became our rule.
Not false optimism.
May you like
Not pretending everything would be fine.
Just refusing to let uncertainty steal every ordinary thing before it happened.
