There was another reason her question about Gabriel bothered me. My full name is Sara Choi-Bennett. When Gabriel and I married, he wanted me to become simply Sara Bennett. I kept Choi because it was part of me, part of my father, my mother, and the family history that existed long before my marriage. Gabriel called the hyphen unnecessarily complicated.

We compromised, or at least I thought we did. Looking back, that early disagreement should have taught me something. He was comfortable with compromise when the final shape still felt mostly like his preference. I had spent years calling that personality instead of recognizing it as a pattern.

Her oncologist, Dr. Reyes, was direct. The treatment plan was encouraging, but chemotherapy would be aggressive. Mom would need help.

“I’ll manage,” Mom said immediately.

“Mrs. Park, going through chemotherapy alone is not advisable,” Dr. Reyes replied.

“I’ve managed alone before.”

She had. My father had been dead for nineteen years, and Mom had built her life around needing as little from other people as possible. But this time, I refused to let her do everything alone.

“You’re staying with me,” I said.

“Sara.”

“You’re staying with us.”

“I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t be.”

Then she asked the question she was really worried about.

“Gabriel?”

I told her I had already spoken to him. Technically, that was true.

Gabriel had not been enthusiastic.

“How long is she staying?” he asked.

“As long as she needs.”

“I just want to know there’s an end date.”

“She has cancer, Gabriel. I cannot give you an end date.”

Eventually he sighed and said, “Fine.”

So Mom moved into the first-floor guest room. It was directly across from the bathroom, which mattered because chemotherapy made stairs and long walks difficult. The room also had a window overlooking our backyard garden, which Mom loved.

She arrived with one suitcase and a bag of medicine and apologized for both.

“Mom, bring whatever you need. This is your room.”

She looked around carefully.

“It’s nice.”

“It’s close to the bathroom.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“For the chemo.”

She nodded and, for once, simply said, “Thank you.”