She said nothing to anyone, not at work, not at home. She told the children she would be undergoing ‘a procedure’; ‘nothing serious’ she added, so as not to worry them. She arranged for the twins to go to their father that week, and Hannah to hers – she had objected but gave in eventually. Sarah told them they wouldn’t be able to visit her in hospital – children weren’t allowed, she said. A little white lie, she told herself, to ease the vice-like grip on her heart. She wanted to spare them the horror of that place, the white hell with its bitter odour. The smells, more than anything else, were the reason she hated hospitals: the mixture of disinfectant and bleach that tied a knot in her stomach. She didn’t want the children to see her there, like that: weak and vulnerable.

Hannah was especially sensitive. She trembled like a leaf in the tiniest breath of air. Sarah had noticed this about her daughter very early on – the impulse to empathy. She resonated with the suffering of the world, took it on board and made it her own. It was like a sixth sense, a gift. As a little girl, Hannah would cry whenever she saw another child hurt or scolded. She cried at news reports on TV, at cartoons. It worried Sarah at times: how would Hannah cope with that heightened sensitivity, being completely exposed to life’s highs and lows, its joys and sufferings? Sarah wanted to tell her: protect yourself, arm yourself, it’s a tough world, life is cruel, don’t let yourself be touched or damaged, be like others, be selfish, insensitive, unmovable.

Be like me.

But she knew Hannah’s sensitive soul. Sarah would have to accept that. And so no, she couldn’t tell her. At twelve years old, Hannah would understand all too well what the word ‘cancer’ meant. She would guess, above all, that the battle was far from won. Sarah couldn’t burden her daughter with that – with the anxiety that went hand-in-hand with the disease.

Of course, she couldn’t lie forever. Her children would ask questions eventually. She would have to talk, explain everything to them. The later the better, Sarah thought. She was taking a few steps back – ready to make the leap when the time came – but that didn’t matter, it was her way of coping.

She didn’t say anything to her father or her brother, either. Her mother had died of cancer twenty years ago. She wouldn’t put them through that all over again, the emotional assault course, the roller coaster ride: hope, despair, remission, relapse; she knew only too well what all those words meant. She would fight this alone, and in silence. She reckoned she was strong enough for that.