She remembers the night like a photograph left in the sun — faded around the edges, but still full of light.She and her sister were lying on the bed, laughing at something stupid. Mum was in the next room, her laugh still echoing faintly in the walls. The world was still full. Heavy with life.
That was the last photo they ever took with her.
At the time, it didn't feel like "the day before."Because you never think the day before is coming.
Mum was still breathing. That was enough to think we had time.
I flew in the day after the diagnosis. Threw away my job offer like a cursed letter. I came back to the country I ran away from leaving everything behind.
Mum had always hated wigs. But the chemo was cruel. So I bought one: real hair, thick, stubborn. I bleached it myself, promising to finish it after she gets better.
I cried so much the sink looked like a broken pearl.
Mum tried to be cheerful.She cracked jokes in the chemo ward. She called the IV stand her "dance partner."She kept asking about the wedding, about the cake flavors and the seating chart.
In those weeks, I learned to become stone. I learned to whisper hope I didn't feel into my sister's ear. I held my father's hand in waiting rooms with walls the color of old bruises. I brought my mum soup, jokes, dresses she no longer filled.
One night, while washing a teacup, she looked up and saw her mum through the kitchen window — her frame smaller, shoulders sunken, but still moving with a stubborn dignity.
Sometimes, from the outside, she looked strong.
But, this is her: screaming into her scarf in a bathroom, typing messages to strangers in support chats.
And this is also me understanding that her smile may fade at any second.
She called the Ministry of Health five times a day.
We danced in the kitchen one night, the three of us. She was too tired to stand long, so we swayed instead of spinning. She whispered:
"Promise me the wedding will still happen."
She'd even planned a dance with my fiancé's mum. I didn't know whether to laugh or scream.
But it's the small things that break you.
And then it happened.
Her pressure dropped.
They called it "critical."
I texted chat after chat, forums, support groups — typing with the desperation of someone bargaining with God through pixels.
Her brain began to fall asleep forever.
They pumped her with adrenaline like hope.
And when they finally said:
"The brain has died."
She turned to the doctor and asked, like a child:
"But it can recover, right? Right?"
That night I was bleaching hair that would never be worn.