A week had passed, but the gut-punch of reality still slammed into me every morning when I opened my eyes. For those first few groggy seconds after waking up, everything felt normal. I was just a regular seventeen-year-old girl, worrying about typical teenage things like what to wear, spots, and whether I'd finally be allowed to get my first piercing.

Then the memories would come flooding back, and my heart would plummet.

That's right. I'm dying.

I blinked at the familiarity of my bedroom ceiling, painted with glow-in-the-dark constellations Dad had done for me when I was eight. The twinkling stars seemed to mock me now. Would I still be here to see them by this time next year?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed the thoughts away and dragged myself out of bed. My limbs feel weighed down like I was lugging around invisible boulders. No wonder, with the rollercoaster of emotions I'd been through recently. From shock and denial to devastation to an odd sort of numb acceptance, it was like I'd aged ten years in seven days.

I padded across the bedroom in my fluffy purple slippers, the ones with unicorn heads that Meri had given me for Christmas last year. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror mounted on the door, looking pale and a bit drained, if I was being honest. There were faint smudges under my red-rimmed eyes from a night of restless sleep plagued by unsettling dreams I couldn't quite remember.

Brushing my tangled brown hair out my face, I studied my features like I was seeing them for the first time. The prominent cheekbones, the slightly upturned nose, the full lips – I'd always thought I was a bit gawky and awkward looking. But now, those same brown eyes that had always seemed too big for my face struck me as somewhat pretty in their own way—like liquid pools of melted chocolate fringed with thick lashes that even my Mum was envious of.

In fact, I realised these were the same eyes as Dad's. We had the same heart-shaped face and an abundant head of thick chestnut waves. The Reid genes were strong in me, while Meri looked like the spitting image of our petite, blonde-haired mum.

Did my similarities to Dad make this even harder for him, I wondered? Having to watch his eldest daughter wither away from the same disease he'd managed to beat?

A traitorous voice at the back of my mind whispered that maybe it was karma evening the scales, payback for Dad's survival all those years ago. My heart clenched at the thought, and I shoved it aside angrily. That was utter rubbish, and somewhere deep down, I knew it. Cancer was a cruel bitch, plain and simple. It didn't play by any rules of justice or fairness.

With a frustrated exhale, I turned away from my reflection, unable to bear examining it any longer. I had to stop wallowing in self-pity before my thoughts spiralled down an even darker path.

"Beth?" Mum's tentative voice drifted in from the hall, accompanied by a soft knock. "You awake, love? Breakfast is ready whenever you're up for it."

"Be out in a moment," I called back, pulling on my dressing gown—another day of being fussed and tiptoed around, no doubt.

Preparing myself, I headed for the door to face the first of what was sure to be many challenges today. The worst part was that there was no way to predict which hurdles would be the most difficult to overcome.

I emerged into the narrow hallway, the delicious aroma of Mum's famous pancakes wafting from the kitchen. Usually, it would have my mouth watering, but today, the rich scent just turned my stomach. Par for the course lately.

As I entered the kitchen, Mum looked up with a warm but strained smile. "Morning, sleepyhead. I made your favourite – chocolate chip pancakes with extra syrup, just how you like them."

She slid a towering plate piled high, their gooey insides oozing out in a puddle of sugary syrup. My appetite, once insatiable, didn't even flicker at the sight.

"Thanks, Mum. Looks great," I lied, smiling as I sat at the counter. Dad glanced up from where he was sipping his tea, his brow creasing with concern.

"You've hardly touched your food the past few days, Beth. Need to keep your strength up, y'know."

I poked unenthusiastically at a pancake with my fork, watching the sticky syrup slowly spread outwards. "I'm just not feeling too hungry, is all."

The truth was food lost its appeal since my diagnosis. Either my appetite completely deserted me, or I spent hours hunched over the toilet, violently sick after every meal. It was a cruel paradox – needing to feed my body while also wanting to starve it of anything that might give cancer more fuel.

Mum sat down across from me, reaching over to brush my hair back from my face. "You sure that's all it is? No other...symptoms or pains this morning?"

I shook my head, even as my chest twinged at the poorly concealed worry in her voice. "I'm fine, Mum. Or as fine as I can be."

The lie felt like acid on my tongue. In reality, I was the farthest thing from "fine". But I couldn't keep piling my problems onto their shoulders. Mum and Dad were already sagging under the weight of this nightmare; I could see it in the tense lines around their eyes and the forced cheer they put on for my sake.

A sudden clatter of tiny footsteps preceded Meredith's whirlwind arrival as she came barreling into the kitchen. "I'm hungry!" she sang, scrambling onto the stool beside me.

Giving me an exaggerated wink, she loudly added, "It's a good thing we have a massive stack of chockie pancakes to gobble up, right Beth?"

I laughed at her not-so-subtle hint, ruffling her wild bedhead. "Yeah, it sure is convenient, squirt. Why don't you dig in and help me out?"

She didn't have to be told twice. Grabbing the maple syrup bottle, she started drenching her pancakes. "These look delicious, Mummy! Can I have some more chockie chips on mine too?"

"Of course you can, petal. That's my hearty little eater!" Mum beamed, looking more relaxed than she had all morning. She knew how to play along, for Meridith's sake.

As my sister prattled on about her brilliant idea to have a chocolate cake at her birthday party later this year, I picked idly at my plateful of pancakes. Watching her sunny, carefree demeanour, so untouched by darkness and worry, was bittersweet.

She was still young enough to find joy in the simplest things, fueled by childhood's pure, uncomplicated energy. Would she still be able to embrace that lightness when I'm not around anymore? The thought cut through me like a barbed wire, the pain so acute it stole my breath for a moment.

Get a grip, Beth, I scold myself sternly. Giving into those morbid thoughts was a slippery slope, one it would be all too easy to tumble down permanently. I had to be strong, to cling to whatever scraps of normality I could. If not for my own sake, then for Mum, Dad, and Meri's.

"So!" Mum pasted on her brightest grin and reached over to ruffle Meri's hair, making her giggle. "What's on the agenda for the Reid family fun day?"

"Actually..." I set my fork down and straightened up, hoping to look more confident than I felt. "I was thinking of heading into college today and getting started on that English lit assignment due next week."

You could have heard a pin drop as Mum, Dad, and even Meridith all turned to gape at me in stunned silence. It was like I'd just announced my intent to run a marathon or audition for Britain's Got Talent – utterly mad, given my condition.

Mum found her voice first. "Sweetheart, are...are you sure that's wise? Perhaps you should rest a bit more before trying to push yourself."

"I've rested enough," I said, more harsh than intended. Regaining some sense of normalcy and routine was necessary; I had to make them understand. "Sitting around dwelling on everything, it'll only drive me insane. I need to keep living my life."

Dad opened his mouth, but Meridith's high-pitched input cut him off.

"Oooh, are you gonna see Nathan today, Beth?" She bounced up and down excitedly on her stool, nearly overturning her plate of syrup-drenched pancakes. "He can come over, and we can all have a tea party, just like we used to!"

Nathan.

He'd constantly tried to see me all week, texting and calling. But I couldn't open his messages or answer, let alone see him face-to-face.

It wasn't that I didn't want to, far from it. We'd been inseparable since we were kids; he was my best friend. With his warm hazel eyes, mischievous grin, and ability to make me laugh until my cheek aches, he meant more to me than life itself.

If anyone could provide a shred of light during this nightmare, it was him. Nathan had a way of making me feel better simply by being himself. It was the kind of steadfast optimism I so desperately needed right now.

But the thought of having to look into those kind eyes that knew me better than anyone and talk about my diagnosis – I couldn't bear to see life get drained out of them. Even though I'm sure Mum had already told him like she'd been telling everyone else. I couldn't repeat those horrible words out loud to my best friend.

Somehow, admitting it to Nathan would make this all horrifyingly, irreversibly real in a way it hadn't been before. As long as we tiptoed around it, I could cling to that tiny flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, the doctors were wrong.

So, for now, I would keep him at arm's length, no matter how much it pained me.

I stood abruptly from the table. "I'm gonna go get ready for college," I mumbled, pushing away my untouched plate of pancakes.

Mum's brow creased. "But you've hardly touched your breakfast. You need to keep your strength up."

I shook my head, my appetite still wholly nonexistent. "Not hungry. I'll grab something from the cafe on campus later, promise."

It was a lie, and we both knew it. I couldn't stomach the thought of food, let alone force anything more substantial than water down my throat.

Dad opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to argue but seemed to think better of it. He gave me a pained, searching look over the rim of his mug before nodding.

"Don't push yourself too hard, Beth," was all he said gruffly.

As usual, his worry, poorly masked, made something twist sharply in my chest. I had to get out of there before my composure unravelled completely.

"Be right back," I muttered, turning on my heel and practically feeling for my bedroom. I closed the door with a sigh. Today was going to be more challenging than I thought if my own family kept smothering me with those heartbroken looks.

It was safer shutting myself off from their pain for now. I needed to recenter and fortify my flimsy attempts at acting normal before facing everyone else.

First step – getting ready like any other ordinary day. I dug through my wardrobe for something comfy yet cute, ultimately settling on my favourite pair of distressed denim jeans and a flowy cream top that always made me feel pretty.

Tugging them on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimaced. With my pallid complexion and shadowed eyes, the usual put-together vibe looked sickly and brittle, like a ghost haunting its former life.

Determined to look somewhat normal, I lined my lash lines with eyeliner and dusted on some rosier blush than I usually wore—small steps to reclaim some vibrancy and light. My fingers automatically reached up to put my long chestnut waves into their usual messy top knot before I paused, shoulders slumping.

Who was I kidding here? I felt like one of those carved pumpkins left to rot on someone's doorstep, slowly withering away as the cheery-painted facade caved in.

A soft knock preceded the creak of my bedroom door opening. "Beth? You decent, baby?"

I saw Mum hovering in the hallway, chewing her lower lip.

"Need some help with your hair?" she asked gently.

The question was so ordinary, reminiscent of the million other times she'd patiently teased out my tangles and coaxed my stubborn hair into some elaborate style—an unwelcome lump formed in my throat.

"Sure," I mumbled, blinking rapidly to disperse the sudden burn of tears. "Could you do that flower crown braid for me? Like you used to when I was little."

Mum's face softened into a smile. "Course. Come have a seat."

I settled cross-legged on the foot of my bed, Mum perching behind me to gently work her nimble fingers through my tangled hair.

"Still can't believe how much of this gorgeous hair you got from your dad's side," she eventually murmured, almost to herself. "Both chestnut angels, my stunning Brown Owl and her baby."

My lips twitched at the silly childhood memories. When I was little, Mum always swooped my freshly braided hair atop my head, creating elaborate nests for her to perch a stuffed owl onto.

"Can you remember the first time we did this style?" she asked softly, dextrous fingers steadily weaving and crossing strands. "You were five and completely enamoured with the flower girl's hair from your aunt's wedding. Begged me for hours to do something just as 'princess-worthy' for your school picture day."

I couldn't help but laugh at the vision – a tiny, stubborn-faced version of myself with chubby cheeks and wild, frizzy hair, stomping her foot until her mother relented. Ever the bossy, demanding one I was.

"And, of course, I caved before your pout could reach the floor," Mum said wryly, echoing my thoughts with a light laugh. "I think I sat down for at least two hours straight, weaving in all the pink flowers from the garden just to make sure my dramatic baby got her dream 'princess hair' as she insisted."

The memories were so brilliantly vivid, every precise detail of that morning. How pleased and utterly chuffed I'd been to stroll into school with my flower crown, head held high like the regal little queen I thought I was. What I wouldn't give to go back to that pure, uncomplicated bliss, where the only threats were fights over toys or complaining over having to share a biscuit with someone else.

I swallowed hard against that choking lump again, forcing the sadness back.

"Nearly finished, my baby bird," she murmured, giving a final tug. Setting her hands on my shoulders, she gently steered me around to face the mirror. "Have a look, then."

My breath caught in my throat at the person staring back. Small clusters of cheery yellow wildflowers were delicately woven into an elegant crown that encircled the top half of my hair, the rest hanging in glossy, wavy rivulets down my back and over one shoulder. It was whimsical yet somehow timelessly regal, like something out of a fairytale.

"Oh, Mum..." My voice shook with a wave of emotion. How could she always understand precisely what I needed before I could admit it myself? "It's perfect. Just like I always dreamed of when I was small."

She squeezed my shoulder gently, lips curved in a smile. "Isn't that what every mum aspires to do? Make her daughter's dreams come true, no matter how small?"

I blinked rapidly against the telltale prickling behind my lids, furiously willing the tears not to spill over and ruin Mum's handiwork or my lingering hopes of maintaining my brave face today. But looking at her through the mirror, the tiredness around her eyes and the dark complexion shadowing her cheeks, I felt broken.

Neither of us deserved this cruelly ticking clock looming over our heads. She was barely even fifty, far too young to have a dying daughter. To miss out on watching me grow up, find love, have babies of my own – all of it taken away.

My throat ached with a thousand things I longed to say in that suspended moment. Promises I wished I could make her believe, apologies for inflicting this unimaginable pain, gratitude for the infinite love and sacrifice that defined her entire existence as my mother.

But no words felt adequate, so I reached out to take her hand, giving it a squeeze as tears finally leaked free.

"I love you," I whispered. "So bloody much, Mum. Thank you...for everything."

Mum's answering embrace was tight yet tender, her hot tears dampening the crown of flower-adorned hair as she cradled me against her chest like I was a child again. "My extraordinary girl," she murmured brokenly against the top of my head. "My brave, beautiful Beth. That's my job, doing anything for you, always."

We stayed like that for a few long, suspended minutes, clinging to each other. Eventually, she drew back just enough to cradle my face between her palms.

"You go out and show the world what you're made of, my love," she said. "And I'll be here waiting for you when you get back, yeah?"

I nodded wordlessly, giving her one last hug. Mum held me tightly for a second, stroking my flower crown of braids.

"Now, get going before you're late," she sighed, finally releasing me. "And be careful."

Mustering a small smile, I grabbed my rucksack and headed for the door. With one last look over my shoulder at Mum's proud, loving expression, I squared my shoulders and strode out, letting the door fall shut behind me.

I would cling to every fleeting second if these were my final months of ordinary. I'd show the world, cancer, and the entire uncaring universe just what I was made of.

This was my life, and I wouldn't fade away without leaving one last unforgettable mark.

Chapter Three

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