When I woke up, my mom was gone. So was my dad. I didn’t know where they were, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was just glad I could have the TV to myself.

The sun was awake, its rays poking through the blinds, highlighting all the clutter on the floor. I really should clean up, I thought. And then I thought about it some more and decided it was in my best interest to continue watching TV. After all, it wasn’t often that I got control of the living room remote. Sure, I could go downstairs, but the basement was always so cold. 

My sister, Lily, came out of her room, groggy as the day is long. And there we sat, in our Christmas pajamas, eating chocolate chip Eggo waffles, watching an episode of The Simpsons in which Lisa gets stuck in Niagara Falls. I noticed that my plaid pajama pants started pilling; there were tiny red and black balls covering each leg. I’ve probably had these pajama pants for a few years now, but they were by far my favorite pair because they were so astonishingly comfortable. I wore them all the time, hence the pilling.

An hour later, my parents came home. They walked in carrying a bag of Chick-fil-a, which was odd because it was only 11:30 in the morning. Usually we eat out for dinner, rarely lunch. Nonetheless, I was gracious; Chick-fil-a beats a white-bread-and-turkey sandwich any day. My dad dropped the bag of food on the old, white kitchen counter, slid on his slippers, and shuffled around the linoleum tiles to gather plates and napkins. Once he had each of our orders together, he distributed them to us, my mom first, as usual. She usually didn’t cook, get her own food, or even do her own chores. She relied on my dad, Lily, and me to do all of that. We knew she was really mad when she did the dishes herself or vacuumed the living room. I slid my eyes across the floor once more. Hopefully she was in a good mood today. 

I looked down at my plate. What. is. that. There, on my ceramic plate, sat four chicken nuggets, each stuffed inside a little biscuit. Okay, you’re funny. Now give me my chicken sandwich. I liked to think I was an adventurous eater, but the truth was, I was as picky as a three-year-old who only eats peanut butter sandwiches and toast.

“Um…what are these?” I asked. I tried to sound as grateful as possible. I could feel how fake my smile looked, my mouth at that awkward stage between straight as a line and actually smiling. 

“Oh, they’re ‘chicken minis,’” my mom happily replied, putting extra emphasis on the “chicken minis.” 

“They came free with our orders because I think they messed something up the first time,” my dad clarified as he saw my puzzled look.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to try these,” Lily said. “Emma says they’re really good.” Emma was her best friend of several years. She hung out with my sister a lot, but usually just at school. Not enough that I ever directly had a conversation with her. I think Lily liked her because Emma never made fun of her for being a ginger. The other kids in her class called her “tomato” and “carrots.” Think of any red food, and I can almost guarantee that someone called her that at one point or another.

Okay, the voice inside my head said. You’ll like them. It’ll be fine.

I wasn’t too sure that I knew what I was talking about.

I tentatively picked one up, feeling the flour on the bottom of the biscuits. I could roll individual grains in-between my pointer finger and my thumb, an act that was never a good sign. A shudder shot down from the back of my neck to base of my spine. Gross.

Inching the “chicken mini” closer to my mouth, I opened my jaw three millimeters and took a bite. No, a nibble. The flavors penetrated my tastebuds, and I pretended I was Remy from Ratatouille, the orange swirls and yellow pops filling my imagination every time I chewed. My whole world belonged to the oranges and yellows. The flavors, the textures, everything wonderful about these “chicken minis” was coming alive. I couldn’t believe how good these things tasted, or how scared I was to try them. Chomp chomp chomp!

“So…I have some news,” my mom said.

Chomp chomp chomp.

“I went to the doctor a few weeks ago, and I just got the X-ray results back a few days ago,” she paused. 

Chomp.

She took a deep breath. My dad reached his hand out to her arm, giving her the slightest reassurance to continue. “The doctors found a tumor in my left breast,” her voice cracked. Her eyes welled with tears as mine stared at the clutter. “And…I have cancer.”

Chom…p.

I stopped chomping. Suddenly, my whole world went gray. The “chicken minis” were the most repulsive thing I had ever tasted; they turned to mush in my mouth. My face burned, my eyes cried, my throat closed, my hands dropped my plate. In that order.

I hated “chicken minis.” I hated Chick-fil-a. I hated the clutter, I hated the TV, I hated how everything was fine six months ago. I hated that this was happening, I hated that this was happening to my mom, and I hated that this was happening to me. Me, who was already so concerned about getting her license and passing AP U.S. History. 

I questioned why this had to happen. Was it written in the stars my mom’s entire life? Could she have prevented it? Was it all the chemicals she had been exposed to at her job in the crime lab? She was only 30 years older than I was. It just wasn’t fair.

And then I did something I will come to regret the rest of my life.

I selfishly began to think about how this would affect my future. I was infuriated that I had my mom’s genes. I would have to start screening for breast cancer earlier than most girls do because it was in my bloodline. There were already enough problems I would, inevitably, receive from my grandparents—diabetes, dementia, arthritis—I didn’t need to add cancer to that list. My heart beat like I was just shocked with 1,000,000 volts of electricity. 

All I did was cry the rest of the day. I retreated to the basement just to feel the icy furniture to remind myself I wasn’t dreaming. The mocha-colored leather was elastic, and the carpet felt particularly scratchy. I turned the TV on and I watched an entire season of The Great British Bake-Off. Later that day, Lily asked who won. I had no idea. 

The next week, none of it felt real. I distracted myself with the school play and, of course, the dreaded AP U.S. History. The week after that, I cried again. I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped.

When I was talking with my aunt, my mom’s closest sister, she said, “Bad things happen to good people.”

When I went to a family party, my grandma said, “Your mom is strong. She always has been.”

When I prayed in church, the pastor said, “‘Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’”

I still thought it wasn’t fair, no matter how many motivational sayings people would throw my way. There was no consolation, no comfort. I was terrified out of my mind.

After three surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and physical therapy, my mom ended up donating two years of her life to this great beast. They were the hardest two years of my life. Everything was fine for a few months. Then, after a routine check-up, she learned that her battle wasn’t over.

I cried some more.

Now, I never wear those Christmas pajamas, I never sit in the same spot I did that one fateful day, I never watch that one episode of The Simpsons, and I never eat “chicken minis.” I haven’t since that day, and I probably never will. 

Maybe, though, I will eat them again. I might be able to enjoy that rich peanut-oil flavor paired with the softness of the biscuit, a combination that is ultimately unstoppable. I might be able to hold my stomach from floating away anytime someone brings them up. I might be able to see the orange swirls and yellow pops once again.

The truth of the matter is that my mom is strong. She isn’t lazy or weak or annoying; I can’t fathom what she had to go through once already, and now once more. All of those tears and sleepless nights and appointments and surgeries are the most painful things anyone can endure. I get to see the worst sides of my mom so I can cherish the time when the good ones come through again.

When my college essays asked, “Who is your hero?”,

I said my mom.