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The pain took root deep in her sternum. A couple of months later, it radiated, traveling to the middle of her spine.

Aspirin, ice packs, hot soaks in the tub all did nothing for it.

But if she concentrated hard enough, if she really focused, George could manage lunch out with Helen or a quick interlude with Frank (sex was out of the question, but the pain eased when he held her).

Ruth had invited her to dinner, and George believed she could manage that too.

“Kimberly will probably do most of the cooking,” admitted Ruth. “She’s better at it than I am.”

George had taken advantage of a better-than-usual morning earlier in the week to pick up a bottle of champagne.

Ruth’s house sat well back from the curb.

With two cars already in the drive, George had to park on the street.

The champagne was a lead weight, slowing her progress to the door.

She paused halfway up the walk to catch her breath.

She felt pathetic, ridiculous. She rested the sweating bottle against her breastbone, hoping it would cool her aching chest. Three breaths, she commanded herself, and then you move.

Once she was inside, she could sit down, count to one hundred, a trick that sometimes outwitted the pain.

The victory she felt at making it to the front door was cut short when Ruth opened it.

“Mom!”

“I’m fine, Ruth.”

“You’re breathing like you just ran a mile.”

“I just need to sit down for a sec.”

Ruth took her arm and led her to a new armchair. “This is so nice,” George managed to gasp.

“Mom. Have you been to the doctor recently?”

“The curtains are just perfect.”

“ Mom. ”

A pretty, petite woman peeked her head around the kitchen door.

She’d looked forward to meeting Kimberly, and already she’d ruined the occasion.

She tried to smile but must not have managed it, because Kimberly’s eyebrows flew up in alarm.

“Hello. Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious,” said George.

But the girl had ducked back into the kitchen.

“Mom. Stop.” Ruth’s eyes shimmered. “We need to get you in.”

George shook her head, then stopped because the motion made her chest hurt worse. “I won’t go through it again, Ruth,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“It’s probably nothing,” said Ruth. “But that’s the reason to go. To make sure. Then you won’t have to worry.”

Then you won’t have to worry, thought George. But her daughter had done so much for her—scheduling the appointments, watching over her after every treatment, staying in Enid when she could have gone anywhere.

“I won’t go through it again,” George said, this time to the doctor who’d just given her the bad news.

“No,” said the doctor. “We don’t recommend another course of treatment.”