That it wouldn’t result in a trifecta of wailing, obscenities, and grave depression? Go ahead and write ZERO in every language here.

But even a difficulty rating of FREAKING IMPOSSIBLE is not an excuse.

The right thing’s the right thing.

I finally want to do the right thing, no matter what.

And okay, I’m not saying there isn’t an argument to be made for not telling him.

When Ms. B says, “I want him to enjoy his last days on this earth, not grapple with his mortality,” I totally get it.

It makes a lot of sense. Deserves consideration.

But in the end, to me, it’s not good enough.

When you’re talking about someone’s life, I don’t think you should hang your hat on what you want.

On how you feel.

And yeah, sure, I get that it’s easy for me to say.

I’m not his bereaved mom. Or his grieving family.

I’m a once-upon-a-time best friend, now wafting within the margins of Q’s sadly all-too-shortened life.

But still.

Still.

Think how you’d live if you knew you had only days left.

Now think how you live most days.

Okay, so you tell me: would you rather have the time of your life doing the things you’ve always wanted, or would you rather spend twenty minutes staring into your sister’s magnification mirror while you pluck curly nose hairs so long they resemble a pig’s tail?

Guys, this is not a trick question.

And so I just say it:

“You deciding not to tell Q is wrong,” I say louder than I intended. Both of us louder with every sentence.

Maybe that’s why we never hear him come into the kitchen.

“Tell me what?” Q asks.

Ms. B and I both whirl around, stunned, jaws dropped, our eyes saucers, all of it.

“Nothing, baby,” Ms. B says, shooting me a look that could’ve easily wiped out the dinosaurs. “Jamal was planning a surprise party and . . .”

“A surprise party,” Q repeats. “For what?”

“Oh, uh, for, uh . . .”

And while Ms. B searches for the next lie to tell, internally I can feel it happening. The words. The truth. Swirling in my gut. Full of the worst shit and rising higher and higher with nowhere to go, like a clogged toilet, it’s gonna spill over. It has to.

“Q, there’s . . . there’s something I need to tell you . . .”

But Ms. B’s waving me off. Her death gaze on bajillion. “Jamal, shut up. That doesn’t belong to you.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Barrantes. I love you. But this doesn’t belong to you either.”

“Jamal, if you say . . . if you do this, you will never . . .”

I shake my head. “Never what? Set foot in this house again? See my friend Q again? All of those things are likely no matter what.”