The Day the World Changed (Chapter 4)
Visit Two: The day she told me—and everything after changed.
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📖 Foreword | Intro | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
She was diagnosed for the first time when we were living in Channahon, Illinois.
I’ve spent so many years trying to pull that house back into focus. It’s like a dream I almost remember, blurry at the edges, too slippery to hold. Most of what I recall lives more in feeling than fact. But that living room? That’s still sharp. Still sacred.
The formal living room was the kind of space only used for Christmas mornings or very special out-of-town guests. It had all the staples of a ’90s family home: dark floral drapes that didn’t block the light, just softened it. White wingback chairs, almost certainly a clearance find my mom was proud of, sat across from a big white couch that always felt too grown-up for me. And white. In a house with three kids. My mom was brave in more ways than one.
She loved geese. Those classic blue-and-white country geese. We had them on mugs, on dish towels, on the ceramic cookie jar with a bow around its neck. I thought they were sophisticated. I think she did too.
Before the cancer took over her body, my mom always looked nice. She was always dressed neatly, even when there wasn’t a reason to be. Her short hair curled just right, makeup on every day. I used to watch her apply her eyeliner and make a solemn vow to myself that I would only use stubby eyeliner pencils when I grew up. (Wow, how wrong I was. That would’ve hurt, right?)
For some reason, in this memory, I picture her in that mauve sweater I kept after she died, paired with light jeans. I don’t know if that’s what she really wore that day, but it’s what I see now.
I had been at my friend Torri’s house when my parents called me home early. That was strange. I usually stayed at Torri’s until dinner. I remember the confusion. The slight pit in my stomach as I walked back.
The moment I stepped into the living room, I could smell it, not anything bad, just the mix of aftershave and cologne worn by the men filling the room. The scent of formality. Of something serious.
The memory begins to sharpen as the green light flickers back and forth in Claire’s office. My breath catches when she speaks.
"Ready to go back to the beginning?" she asks gently.
I nod, even though everything in me wants to run. This is the memory I’ve always avoided. The one that split my childhood down the middle. The before. The after.
The green light pulses.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
And then I’m there.
I’m five.
The room feels smaller. My feet don’t touch the floor. My parents are sitting across from me, and next to them is our pastor. A few others, church elders, maybe, sit nearby, heads bowed in prayer.
Everyone’s eyes are closed but mine.
Chris is there too, off to the side, almost like a ghost in the room. No one sees him, but he sees everything. He watches as my parents try to hold it together, as our pastor closes his eyes, as my mom squeezes my tiny hand while trying to say the word cancer out loud.
He doesn’t say a word. He just watches. Quiet. Still. I can feel the weight of him holding this moment with me, even now, all these years later.
I don’t know what breast cancer is, but I know it’s bad. I know it’s something grown-ups cry about. My mom is holding my hand, and her voice shakes as she says the words. My dad is trying not to cry. That’s the scariest part. He’s not saying anything. Just staring.
I sit there, eyes wide, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to hold her hand tighter, like maybe I could keep her here if I just didn’t let go.
"That was the day," I whisper in Claire’s office. "That was the day I started preparing to lose her. Even if I didn’t understand it yet."
The light slows.
Chris lingers in the corner of the memory, his expression soft, his eyes locked on my mom’s. She turns her head slightly, not startled, just calm. As if she’s been expecting him all along.
“Chris,” she says gently. “Thank you for coming.”
He nods, his voice quiet. “I didn’t realize this was where it started.”
“Most people don’t,” she says, her eyes drifting back to me. “Not until much later.”
Chris shifts slightly, the weight of the room heavy on his chest. "She was so little. I can’t believe she had to hear it like this."
My mom smiles sadly. "She already knew something was wrong. She always knew more than she let on."
Chris looks at her, something catching in his voice. "She always can sense things... about people. Has she always been like that, even then?"
"Always," my mom says, her eyes not leaving mine. "She came into the world with that gift. She feels what others won’t say out loud."
He looks at her, his voice thick. "I wish I could take this from her. All of it."
"You can’t," she says softly. "But you can help her carry it."
“It’s like she knew how much pain and fear I was in,” my mom says after a long pause, her eyes distant. “And she tried to turn it all into light. Through all the diagnoses, the tests, the treatments, Kiley was always hopeful. Maybe it was her way of protecting herself from what was coming, but I liked to believe she was manifesting my recovery. She wouldn’t let herself imagine the worst.
And I loved that she kept living her life while I was going through this. It gave me a strange kind of peace to see her still marching to her own rhythm, doing the things she loved. She didn’t fall into the illness with me. And don’t get me wrong, I know it got to her at times. But she was my ultimate optimist.”
Chris's voice is quiet but certain. "She’s still like that. Even now. When things go bad, and we’ve had some bad times this past year, she always focuses on the good. She says things will get better, and... she just tends to know."
My mom smiles again, tears brimming now. "She’s always known. She always leads with hope. Even when it scares her."
Chris takes a breath, then asks, "What did you want for her? After you were gone, I mean."
My mom is quiet for a long moment. Then, "I wanted her to be happy. To still laugh. To feel safe, yes—but more than that, to stay stubborn and wild and weird and all the things she was with me. I knew the world might try to harden her, but I hoped she’d find someone who would remind her who she really was. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid of her grief.
And… I hoped she’d stay close to her dad. He’d need her. I was always her person, but I knew if I couldn’t be there, she’d have to be strong enough to be his person too. I hoped they’d hold onto each other.”
Chris nods, his eyes misting. “They did. When I met her, she was still calling her dad for everything. In college, after a breakup? First call: her dad. A rough day at work? Her dad. Even in her late twenties, he was the person she went to first. I think he only got a break from all those calls once I came into the picture. They’re closer than most girls I know are with their dads.”
My mom lets out a soft laugh. “That sounds about right.”
Chris grins. "That stubbornness you mentioned? Oh, it's alive and well. I’m pretty sure she could win a gold medal in it. She once argued with our GPS—and won. Honestly, I think she’d be offended if anyone said she wasn’t stubborn anymore."
My mom lets out a laugh, the kind that softens the whole room. "She got that from my mom. From Grandma."
Chris chuckles. "That explains a lot."
My mom nods, a spark of pride in her voice. “That fire? She gets it honest—from my mom. Grandma had a spine of steel and a heart to match. You would've liked her. She was strong, steady, and had a quiet way of making you feel seen. Her love stuck with you.”
Chris is quiet for a moment, like he’s letting the image of her settle. Then, his voice softens. "I just try to show up for her. However, she needs. I never want to make her feel like she has to be anything other than exactly who she is."
My mom studies him, really studies him. Then she nods, slow, certain. "That’s what she needs. Not someone to carry her, just someone who doesn’t flinch when she’s carrying a lot."
Chris lets out a breath, like something inside him has settled.
"You’re doing better than you think," she adds gently. "And so is she."
Then she falls silent and gives him that look full of knowing. A mother’s gratitude. A blessing passed without words.
Then the memory fades.
I don’t remember what we did as a family after the moment with the pastor and elders.
But it’s okay.
For now, I’m just going to sit on that couch, five years old, holding my mom’s hand.
And not let go.
📹 A memory from the “before.”
Christmas morning. Same living room. My mom’s behind the camera, and I’m showing off a brand-new jogging suit. She asks me to say Merry Christmas—and I do.
At the end, we say “I love you” to each other.
It’s a small, happy moment. But sometimes those are the ones that carry you through everything else.
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The Door Between Us (Chapter 3)
When the past calls, will you have the courage to answer? Some doors, once opened, can never be closed.