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One afternoon, after a particularly brutal round of treatment, she lay pale and weak, barely conscious. I was holding her hand, gently stroking her forehead, humming a lullaby their mother used to sing. I’d overheard them once, years ago, remembering it. Her eyes fluttered open. They were still glazed, but for the first time, they held something other than contempt. She looked at me, really looked at me, and a single tear traced a path down her temple.
My own tears streamed down my face. “More than you could ever imagine,” I choked out, pressing her hand to my cheek.
