We had so much to say to each other when I was young, but these days talking to him feels like talking to a stranger. When we talk at all. His prediction that he’d be gone longer than usual has proven more than accurate.

Mom’s voice rises again. “Can’t they at least first try the standard treatment, even if it’s unlikely to change the prognosis?”

That doesn’t sound good. I tiptoe closer to listen at the door.

I’ve seen the creases between Mom’s eyes deepening over the past few months (as much as the Botox will allow), and I’ve heard her whispered conversations with Dr. Ambrose. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve walked in on her talking with Grandfather and they both become silent the moment they see me… I’m not an idiot; I know Grandfather is sick, and I know it must be something serious. He’s lost a ton of weight over the past few months, and he barely eats. But I’ve never heard scary words like “treatment” and “prognosis” bandied about until now. I wish they would just tell me what’s going on instead of keeping me in the dark about everything, as usual.

Mom’s voice rises as she exclaims, “No, you cannot test Ada’s blood. Leave her out of this.”

What? Does Grandfather need a blood transfusion or a donor for something? Why wouldn’t she let them test my blood? I would gladly give my blood to help him. I try to hear more, but Mom has calmed down, and I can only make out broken mutterings, something about stem cell transplants and then the two-syllable word I was dreading. Cancer.

I blink away tears, my fists clenched so tight that my nails dig painfully into my palms. I knew Grandfather hadn’t been well, but I’d been assuring myself it was just regular old-person stuff. Not something serious.

Mom’s footsteps grow louder, and I scurry away before I’m caught eavesdropping. I immediately head to the sunroom, where I know Grandfather will be. He likes when I join him there; he says his plants are fond of me and that they grow better when I’m around.

The sunroom is bright with afternoon sunlight streaming in through the glass walls. The air is fresh and tangy, and I breathe in the smell of all the memories made in this room. I developed my interest in plants from gardening with Grandfather here. Repotting aloe vera plants, trying to coax blooms from the orchids, trimming the rosebush that had been my grandmother’s favorite.