Laurel's condition was getting worse. She locked herself in her room and refused to come out. She stopped going to work. She stopped eating. All she did was sit there scrolling through her phone, reading everything she could find about leukemia.
The doctor warned that this couldn't go on. Most patients weren't killed by the disease itself, he said. They were killed by the fear. If Laurel kept spiraling like this, things could take a very bad turn.
Mom and Dad panicked. They stopped ordering me around to cook and started making Laurel's meals themselves, trying something new every day to tempt her appetite.
Mom pawned the gold jewelry I'd bought her and used the money to buy Laurel the designer bags she loved. Dad sold the watch I'd given him and bought Laurel pretty new clothes.
These were all things Laurel used to obsess over. But now, none of it mattered to her. Not the bags, not the clothes, not any of it.
You only understand how precious health is once you've lost it. Everything else is just noise.
The atmosphere at home was suffocating. Mom and Dad walked around with dark, drawn faces every single day. At mealtimes, you couldn't make a sound. Not even the clink of a spoon.