My sister, Megan, didn’t answer. She texted twenty minutes later: Mom said you’re upset. I’m at the shower. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Tomorrow turned into next week. Next week turned into the start of chemotherapy.

I drove myself to every appointment except one—when my neighbor, Denise, took time off work because she said no one should go through their first infusion alone. She held my coat while I threw up into a paper bag in the parking garage. She shaved my head in her kitchen when my hair began falling out in thick, humiliating clumps. My mother sent flowers once, but the card read, Stay strong! Sorry we missed your call. Love, the family. The family—like they were a committee.

Then, four days after my second chemo session, they showed up.

Mom, Megan, and my stepfather, Ron. Smiling. Holding a grocery-store fruit tray like they were auditioning for kindness.

I was on the couch under a blanket, pale and aching, when Megan perched on the armrest and said, “You look better than I expected.”

I almost laughed.

Mom folded her hands and gave me that careful expression people use before asking for something they know they shouldn’t.

“So,” she began, “we need a little favor.”