“Blake,” Dad said, “before you say anything, your mom and I have something we need to talk to you both about.”

No. No, no, no.

I had my thing to tell.

I had a script in my head.

I was supposed to be the one talking.

Mom shot Dad a quick look, her eyes—so much like Beverly’s—filled with something I didn’t like. Fear. Resignation. A quiet, aching kind of sadness.

I exchanged a glance with Beverly, but she looked just as confused as I felt. “Okay,” I said slowly. “What is it?”

Dad sighed heavily, finally looking at us.

I felt it in my ribs before I even knew what it was. Dread.

He gestured toward the table. “You should sit down.”

I blinked.

I had come in here prepared to say those same words. But suddenly, something was happening. Something bigger than me, bigger than whatever I had planned to say.

Beverly hesitated beside me, fingers twitching at her sides, like she wanted to reach for my hand but wasn’t sure if she should.

We sat down. Dad ran a hand over his face. He looked…older. More tired than I had ever seen him.

“I went to the doctor,” Mom said, her voice steady but quiet, like she had rehearsed this a thousand times in her head.

A cold, hollow feeling settled in my stomach.

“Mom,” I rasped, my voice breaking against the syllable. Everything in me tensed.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Because I knew what she was going to say before she even said it. I had noticed—the weight loss, the fatigue, the way she had stopped eating full meals, the way Dad looked at her like she was something he was trying to hold onto.

“I haven’t been feeling well for a while, and…well. They ran some tests.”

Beverly stiffened beside me.

Dad’s throat worked, like he was trying to find the right words. Mom looked between us, her hands folding together on the table.

And then she said it.

“I’m sick.”

It landed like a gunshot.

My vision blurred at the edges, the words hammering against my skull, pounding, pounding, pounding. My ears started ringing, like my body was trying to protect me from the impact of what had just been said.

“No. No.” Beverly’s voice cracked. “No, no, no. That’s not⁠—”

Mom was already standing, already reaching for her. “It’s okay, baby⁠—”

“How is that okay?!” Beverly’s voice broke.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she said, too soft, too careful. “I’ll be fine.”

But she wouldn’t be sitting here like this if that were true.

She wrapped her arms around Beverly, pulling her close, stroking her hair, whispering things too soft for me to hear.

I just sat there. Frozen. Silent.