Cancer did not stop because our family was falling apart.

That was one of the hardest things to accept.

Court dates existed.

Investigators existed.

Divorce paperwork existed.

But so did tumors.

Lily’s next MRI was scheduled for Monday morning.

I had been dreading it for weeks.

She hated the machine.

Not because it hurt.

Because she hated being still.

The night before the scan, I found her awake at midnight.

She was staring at the ceiling.

“Can’t sleep?”

She shook her head.

I lay beside her.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then she said, “Did Vanessa hate me because I might die?”

The question nearly destroyed me.

“No.”

“But she said—”

“I know what she said.”

“Was she right?”

“About what?”

“That I might not be here long.”

I looked at my daughter.

There are questions parents should never have to answer.

There are answers children should never need.

I chose the only truth I had.

“The doctors are doing everything they can to make sure you are here for a very long time.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She had always been too smart for easy answers.

I swallowed.

“Yes.”

Her eyes stayed on mine.

“Cancer can be dangerous.”

“Am I dying?”

“Not tonight.”

She thought about that.

“Tomorrow?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

That made her smile slightly.

Then I became serious.

“Nobody knows exactly how many days they get.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.”

She looked at the ceiling again.

“Vanessa said you would want another kid if I died.”

My entire body went still.

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“What exactly did she say?”

Lily closed her eyes.

“She said maybe then you could have a normal family.”

I turned my face away.

I could not let Lily see what those words did to me.

After a moment, her hand found mine.

“Dad?”

“I’m here.”

“Am I not normal?”

I looked back at her.

“You are the weirdest kid I’ve ever met.”

She laughed.

I smiled.

“You put ketchup on scrambled eggs.”

“Aunt Rachel does too.”

“Aunt Rachel is also weird.”

“She said you snore.”

“She’s a liar.”

Lily laughed again.

Then I touched her hand.

“Listen to me.”

Her smile faded.

“Our family is not less real because you got sick.”

“Okay.”

“You did not ruin anything.”

“Okay.”

“And if anybody ever made you believe you had to stay quiet so I could be happy, they were wrong.”

She nodded.

The MRI the next morning lasted forty-seven minutes.

Those forty-seven minutes felt longer than the previous month.

Dr. Patel met us afterward.

She had the images.

I watched her face before I listened to her words.

Oncology parents become experts at faces.

She sat down.

“The tumor has not grown.”

I exhaled so hard my chest hurt.

Rachel started crying.

Lily smiled.

Dr. Patel continued.

“There are small areas that look improved.”

I grabbed Lily’s hand.

“Improved?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning treatment appears to be working.”

Lily looked at me.

“Does that mean I’m not dying?”

Dr. Patel did not flinch.

“It means today’s scan gives me reason to be hopeful.”

Lily smiled.

I cried.

I did not hide it.

I had spent too much time teaching my daughter that tears were something to fear.

That afternoon, we bought a chocolate milkshake even though it was not on her meal plan.

Dr. Patel pretended not to know.

For three hours, cancer did not win.

Vanessa did not win.

The court case did not exist.

We were just a father and daughter sitting in a car with milkshakes.

Then my phone rang.

Aaron.

I answered.

“We have a problem.”

“What?”

“Vanessa has filed an accusation against you.”