Chapter 1

GRACE’S POV

April 11, 2023. 

6:00 a.m.

My alarm rang loudly, but I had already been awake for nearly an hour. Even then, it started me a bit.

Sleep didn’t seem to come to me as easily as it did before anymore. Whenever it tried to come, it was thin and restless, slipping away whenever the dull ache in my stomach increased into something sharper. 

This morning the pain had woken me before dawn, as usual. It left me dreading the entire day already. The pain laid curling low beneath my ribs, and spread slowly outward like water penetrating a cabin.

I laid still, staring at the ceiling, the doctor's voice echoing in my head. I couldn't get it out of my head.

Gastric cancer.

The words still didn’t feel real, even after hearing them twice. The doctor had spoken gently, carefully, as if speaking softly could make the pain go away.

“It’s spreading, Mrs. Williams.” He had said, eyes searching my face as my own eyes strayed from his to my fiddling hands.

I turned to the other side of the bed. Beside me, Michael slept, his breathing slow and even. One of his arms was thrown across his pillow, his face was relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen when he was awake in a long time.

He hadn’t noticed when I left for the hospital two days ago. I didn't even bother to tell him, I hoped he'd notice.

He hadn’t asked why I came home pale and quiet, too busy in his world to take a second look at me.

He hadn’t noticed the prescription bottles in my handbag. Nothing about me concerned him anymore.

Or maybe he did notice all those things, just didn't care.

I pushed the blanket aside and sat up slowly, waiting for the dizziness to pass before standing up. The bedroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. Sunlight had started creeping through the curtains, thin and pale.

I made my side of the bed carefully, smoothing the sheets, tucking the corners, pressing out every crease. I made sure not to disturb Michael. 

I’d always done it this way. Having things done properly made things feel like they were under my control, even when nothing else was.

In the bathroom, Michael’s presence the night before was evident. He'd come back home late when I was already in bed and had headed straight for the shower. 

His damp towel laid on the floor near the sink, the shaving cream sat open, water droplets spotted the mirror. A trail of dry shaving foam marked the edge of the basin.

I cleaned everything without thinking, as usual. At this point It wasn’t love that made me do these things anymore.It was a habit. A routine that had stayed with me.

Something steady in a life that no longer felt steady at all.

By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the ache in my stomach had dulled slightly. I moved slowly, preparing breakfast as I made toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee. The smell of food should have made me hungry, but lately food only made my stomach uneasy. I couldn't stomach anything, just water and juice.

Michael walked in a few minutes later, already dressed for work, his attention fixed on his phone. His shirt was neatly tucked into his matching pants, his tie smartly knotted and his hair done the way he always likes. 

“You didn’t wake me,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting.

“I thought you needed the rest,” I replied, my voice soft.

He took a sip of coffee and frowned faintly. His eyebrows scrunched. “You’ve been off lately,” he said. “The house isn’t the same.”

I didn’t answer him, only focusing on making breakfast.

Lazy is what he meant to call me.

That was the word he had used last week.

If I told him I was dying, would he still think I was lazy? Or would he only worry about heading to work late? Or dinner being served late? 

“I’ll be home late,” he said, standing and grabbing his keys. He placed his mug on the table and turned around.

“Okay” I replied so it didn't seem like I was ignoring him.

He left without another word, his footsteps echoing through the house, briefcase in hand.

The front door closed, and silence settled over the house like a weight placed on an incapable base.

I stood in the kitchen for a long time, one hand pressed lightly against my stomach as the pain returned, sharper this time. 

For a second, the room tilted, but I steadied myself against the counter and took a slow breath. 

Life didn’t stop because I was possibly dying, even though I wish it did. Bills still had to be paid, unfortunately. Work still had to be done because no one else would do it for me.

Painstakingly, I dumped the entire breakfast into the trash can. It's not like anyone would want to eat it. I grabbed a box of apple juice, poured some into a glass and gulped it down.

Then, I left to get dressed for work.

I picked out an outfit, work pants and shirt. I checked my bag for any misplaced file and when I didn't see anything out of place, I headed to the bathroom to shower.

In the shower, I did everything I could to drown out the thoughts, but nothing worked. The warm water turned cold, I remained there for a minute longer, wishing I could curl up in there and cry. 

After drying up, I made up a little, something to remind me that I was alive. Unwell, but alive nevertheless. The pants and shirt gave more space than usual, proof that I had lost weight. I refused to think about it.

I picked up my bag and walked out of the house, locking up and getting into my car. The ache appeared again, like another reminder that I wasn't only alive, unwell too.