"I'm afraid," the doctor said gently, "you have a tumor in the medial temporal lobe. Left side of the brain."
For a moment, time fractured.
Her hand, cold and trembling, clutched the edge of the chair. Her voice came out in a broken breath.
"You mean... I have cancer?"
The doctor nodded. His expression remained composed—rehearsed, almost—but his eyes softened with the weariness of too many similar conversations.
"Yes. I'm sorry. It appears the tumor has grown significantly over time—likely due to the lack of early detection. I strongly recommend starting chemotherapy as soon as possible."
"That can't be right," she whispered, her throat closing in around the words. "I'm twenty-six. I just gave birth three months ago. I'm healthy. I feel fine—look at me."
He didn't argue. He'd seen denial bloom in a thousand shapes before. Instead, he lowered his gaze briefly, then looked at her with a calm compassion.
"This type of tumor is incredibly hard to catch, even for specialists. Persistent headaches, confusion, memory loss… they're all symptoms, yes. But easy to mistake for stress or exhaustion. Especially in new mothers."
Her lips parted, but no sound followed.
"I know it's difficult," he continued. "But this tumor, in this part of the brain, affects long-term memory. Semantic memory. Even procedural memory. You may find yourself forgetting words, names, even how to do certain things. I recommend you consider hiring a caregiver—especially since you have a newborn. You mentioned a son?"
She nodded slowly, her mind swimming. The word "son" echoed like it belonged to someone else's story.
"Yes," she breathed. "His name is Noah."
The doctor gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Then you may need help soon. Not forever, perhaps. But soon."
---
She didn't remember leaving the hospital.
The drive home was a blur of traffic lights and tears she didn't realize she was shedding. When she pushed the door open, the silence inside was unbearable.
Tyler wasn't home. Maybe he'd taken the baby for a walk, or to visit his sister.
Her legs felt hollow. She drifted into the kitchen on autopilot, reached for a glass, filled it with water, and left it on the counter. The burn in her chest was worse than thirst—it was disbelief, terror, grief… all crowded in the same breath.
Upstairs, she unfolded the doctor's report like it might say something different if she read it again. And again.
And again.
She sat on the edge of the bed, weeping without sound, without motion, for what felt like an hour.
Then—
A knock.
She jumped slightly, wiping her face with her sleeve.
"Amelia?" came Tyler's voice from the other side of the door. "I forgot my keys. Are you home?"
She moved toward the door, her steps heavy, her vision still blurred from the tears.
But just before her fingers touched the doorknob, she paused.
Her eyes caught something on the counter.
The glass of water.
Still full. Still untouched.
She had forgotten it.
Her breath hitched.
And in that quiet moment, the doctor's words no longer felt like distant warnings.
They had arrived.
And they were real.
Tyler opened the door with a smile on his face, gently bouncing baby Noah in his arms.
"Look who's back," he chuckled, kissing his son's cheek.
But the smile faded almost instantly.
Amelia stood in the hallway like a shadow of herself—pale, eyes swollen and red, lips trembling without a word.
Tyler closed the door slowly, instinctively pressing Noah closer to his chest.
He didn't speak.
He simply walked past her, silent, and gently laid the baby down in his crib, pulling the blanket over him with care.
When he turned, Amelia was no longer in the hallway. He found her in their bedroom, curled up on her side of the bed, facing the wall, as if sleep could dissolve whatever darkness had followed her home.
Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
She flinched.
"Why are you hugging me?" she asked, her voice hollow, dry.
"Because," he whispered into her hair, "you look like you need it."
She didn't answer.
He pulled her closer.
"What happened?" he asked softly. "What made the light in my world cry like this?"
She turned to him slowly, her face blank with grief. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Just tears—falling, relentless, like her body had been waiting for someone to hold her so it could finally collapse.
"Talk to me," Tyler said, lifting her face with both hands, gently cupping her cheeks as if afraid she might break.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it. Together. Didn't I tell you before? You and me—always, in everything."
She closed her eyes, breathed in shakily, then pulled away from him.
She walked over to the small coffee table by the window and picked up the file she'd dropped there earlier.
Without a word, she handed it to him.
He raised an eyebrow. "What's this? A job application? Some bills?"
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her head bowed, hands clenched in her lap.
"Just read it," she said. Her voice was barely audible.
Tyler gave a crooked smile, trying to lighten the air.
"You always make things sound so dramatic," he teased, flipping the folder open. "Alright, let's see what we've got—"
His voice trailed off as his eyes scanned the words:
"Patient: Amelia Hart. Age: 26. Marital status: Married. Diagnosis: Left Medial Temporal Lobe Brain Tumor."
Reviewed by Dr. Pollan, Neuro-oncology, Secca Street Medical Center.
The grin vanished. His throat tightened as if something inside him had suddenly clenched.
He searched the room for something to sit on, but his knees gave out before he could move.
He sank to the floor.
Amelia couldn't meet his eyes.
He crawled toward her, slowly, almost childlike. When he reached her, he lifted her chin and looked into her face. His own eyes—bright, blue, and full of fear—were brimming with tears.
"Amelia…" he whispered. "Baby… this has to be a mistake. Right? Tell me it's a joke. What month is this? April? Is this one of your twisted pranks?"
He pressed his forehead to hers. She could feel his chest shaking with each breath.
"Say it's wrong," he pleaded.
"It's not," she whispered back. "I'm sorry."
That small phrase shattered him.
His chest caved in, and a sob escaped his lips like something torn from his soul. He held her tightly, like he was trying to hold time itself.
But even through his grief, he found resolve.
He stood abruptly, took her hand in both of his, and looked her dead in the eyes.
"Get up."
"Where are we going?" she asked, startled.
"To the hospital," he said. "We're starting treatment. Now. I'm not losing you—not after everything we've been through."
"Tyler…" her voice stopped him just as he reached for the door.
She was still seated on the edge of the bed, her eyes locked on the floor. "You can't fix this with determination. It's not a broken pipe or a late bill. It's inside me. Eating me alive. I don't even know how long it's been there."
He turned slowly, his hand still on the doorknob.
"You think I don't know that? You think I'm not terrified too?"
She finally looked at him, and he saw it then—not just the fear, but the shame.
"I forgot Noah's bottle yesterday. I was holding it, then I just... I blinked, and it was gone. I found it later in the linen closet."
He stepped closer.
"It's starting," she said. "The forgetting. The pieces are slipping away."
Tyler knelt again, this time not in shock but in quiet surrender. He took her hand and placed it over his heart.
"Then I'll be your memory. I'll remember for you. Every damn bottle, every laugh, every lullaby. You don't get to face this alone, Amelia. I won't let you."
She choked back another sob.
"And when I forget your name, Tyler? When I look at you and see a stranger?"
He smiled, but his eyes shimmered again.
"Then I'll fall in love with you all over again. Every single day, if that's what it takes."
Her face broke—into tears, into laughter, into a kind of exhausted love that comes only from staring death in the eye and finding someone still choosing you anyway.
He stood and pulled her into him, burying his face in her hair.
"We'll fight, Amelia. Not because it's easy. But because you're worth the fight. And so is Noah. And so is our story."