It was two in the afternoon. Slumped against the rear counter, Anita was counting the minutes. After work she was going to the doctor. “You need to come in immediately,” was the message on her phone.
At two-thirty she left, driving absently as she relived the past, dreading that this time she wouldn’t be so lucky.
The doctor sat behind an enormous desk. “Ms. Fitzgerald, I’m sorry, but your cancer is no longer in remission.”
Anita felt the whelp in her breast. “I know.”
Alone in her car, Anita picked up the phone. “Mom, it’s back …”