“You must have made a mistake,” she said.

He hadn’t.

“Surely there’s a way to cure this?”

There wasn’t.

“You’re telling me, that all you doctors with your collective wisdom, you can’t find a way to save my daughter?”

That’s exactly what he was telling her.

Finally, after exhausting all her prepared questions and failing to get a different answer, she had blusteringly accepted it, inasmuch as a mother can accept being told her only child is not long for this earth, and had just asked him the question I’d been longing to but had been too afraid.

“That’s hard to say,” he says carefully.

“Come on, you must have a ballpark figure.”

“We don’t like to give people false hope.”

“How about if we promise not to hold you to it?” she says exasperatedly. “Give us some idea, please.”

“I really couldn’t hazard—”

“Do you have children of your own, Dr. Harrison?” my mother interrupts.

“No.”

“Well, could you just right now, just for a minute, pretend that you do. And then put yourself in our shoes. How. Long.” My mother’s teeth are gritted, her expression steely.

“A year maybe, eighteen months. Could be less, could be longer.”

“With all due respect, Doctor.” I lean forward to speak up for the first time. “There’s a big difference between twelve months and eighteen. A whole extra six months, in fact. There’s a lot I could do with that time. I could take a world cruise in six months.”

My mother’s head swivels to look at me. “Is that on the table?”

I shrug. “I dunno. Probably not. But I’d like to know my options. I’m not going to go ahead and book something if it’s unlikely I’ll be around to enjoy it.”

Dr. Harrison rotates his pen between his left thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit he’s probably not even aware he has. He looks to his computer screen for help, but the inconsiderate thing has gone into sleep mode.

“I wish I could be more specific,” he says finally. “I really do. And I understand the desire to have a time frame. I’d be the same in your shoes. But these things can change depending on circumstance. General health, the treatment options you choose. It’s just not something we can predict with any great accuracy.”

I sit back in my chair and exhale. “It’s OK. I understand.”

My mother looks at me with a stunned, helpless expression. “This can’t be it, the final say on the matter. We’ll get a second opinion.”

“Absolutely. You’re welcome to do that, of course,” Dr. Harrison says, twirling his pen. “I can recommend someone, if you like?”

“No.”

“Ava—”

“No, Mum. Dr. Harrison knows what he’s doing. I trust him.”

“It’s not about trust. This is your life we’re talking about.”

Normally I’d react to a statement like that. But I know she doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. She’s hurting too.

“I’m aware of that,” I say levelly.

Her shoulders collapse inward like someone just punctured her lungs. My normally youthful mother suddenly looks every year of her age. “Of course you are. Sorry.”