Mom healed a little each morning.
Dad brought breakfast.
Linda stayed for two nights.
I handled groceries and medication reminders.
But nobody pretended we weren’t afraid.
That was Mom’s rule.
If she was scared, she said so.
If Dad was scared, she made him admit that too.
Then, on the fourth afternoon, Mom’s phone rang.
Everyone stopped.
She looked at the screen.
Answered.
“Hello?”
We watched her face.
“Yes.”
A long pause.
Then her shoulders dropped.
“Benign?”
Dad covered his mouth.
Mom closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
She listened for another minute.
Asked about follow-up.
Then ended the call.
Linda was already crying.
Mom looked at us.
“It’s benign.”
Dad sat down beside her so quickly the mattress shifted.
I wrapped my arms around both of them while Linda leaned over us.
Nobody said anything useful for several seconds.
