She carried the shopping bag to the car.
I remember asking:
“Where are you going to wear it?”
“Graduation.”
I laughed.
“You have two more years.”
“I know.”
“So you’re planning two years ahead?”
“Obviously.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
She opened the car door.
“I’ve decided to become responsible.”
I laughed.
“Who are you?”
She smiled.
“Your daughter.”
I didn’t know then that she would never get that far.
The first signs of her illness came months later.
Fatigue.
Persistent fevers.
Pain she tried to hide.
Then appointments.
Then tests.
Then specialists.
Then the word nobody wanted to hear.
Cancer.
Everything changed.
School became secondary.
Parties became irrelevant.
The future became measured in medical appointments.
But Mary remained Mary.
She still joked.
Still argued.
Still teased Aaron.
Still wore bright colors.
And she still kept the red dress.
Chapter Three: The Final Ordinary Afternoon
The afternoon I remember most happened several months into her treatment.
Mary had spent the morning at the hospital.
She was exhausted.
The doctors had adjusted her treatment plan, and we were waiting to see how her body responded.
On the drive home, she suddenly said:
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can we stop?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
I pulled into a small parking area near a public garden.
