lifelines

The doctors take over swiftly, wheeling Mom into a room. I try to follow, but the door slams shut in my face.

"You're not allowed in," one of them says firmly.

"But I'm her daughter!" I shout, pounding once on the door.

"Helen."

I hear Dad's voice behind me.

I turn and collapse into his arms, and he wraps me tightly, like he's trying to hold both of us together.

"Why do you all keep things from me?" I cry into his chest, my voice cracking.

He doesn't respond right away. I feel his breath hitch, the panic he tries to mask tightening in his throat.

"She's going to be fine," he says softly. "Mom's strong. She'll get through this."

I pull away slightly, just enough to see Saint sitting off to the side, eyes fixed on us, silent. I turn back to Dad, staring straight into his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me Mom's been fighting cancer?"

The tears are already threatening to fall again.