The oncologist's words hung in the air like a death sentence, which I suppose they were. "Six months. Maybe eight if we're lucky." I watched Elena's face crumble, watched her fingers tighten around mine until I felt my bones grinding together. But I didn't pull away. I would never pull away from her. "There has to be something else," I said, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening inside my chest. "Another treatment. Clinical trials. Something." Dr. Morrison's expression was practiced sympathy, the kind that comes from delivering bad news too many times. "Mr. Chen, we've exhausted the conventional options. The cancer is aggressive and it's metastasized. I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry," I snapped. "Be helpful." Elena squeezed my hand again, softer this time. "Marcus—" "No." I stood up, still holding her hand, pulling her gently with me. "We're not giving up. We're not just going to accept this." That was three weeks ago. Three weeks of falling down internet rabbit holes at two in the morning, of calling research facilities across the country, of maxing out credit cards to fly to consultations with specialists who might—just might—have an answer that Dr. Morrison didn't. I found it in Munich. Dr. Kristoff Hartmann ran a private clinic that specialized in experimental immunotherapy. His success rates were promising—not miraculous, but promising. Forty percent of his patients with Elena's type of cancer went into remission. Forty percent wasn't a guarantee, but it was forty percent more hope than Dr. Morrison had given us. The catch? It would cost everything we had. Our savings, our retirement, the college funds we'd been building for Jake and Sophie since they were born. And it would require Elena to spend three months in Germany, with me there to support her through the brutal treatment protocol. Three months away from home. Away from our kids. I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the consultation documents from Dr. Hartmann's clinic, when Jake came down for breakfast. He was seventeen now, tall and lean like Elena, with my dark hair and her green eyes. He moved through the kitchen like a ghost, grabbing a protein bar without looking at me. "Morning," I said. He grunted in response. "Your mom's appointment is at ten today. The radiologist wants to do another scan." "Can't Sophie take her? I have practice." I looked up from the papers. "Jake, your mother has cancer." "I know that, Dad." His voice was sharp, defensive. "I know that better than anyone since I'm the one who's actually here while you're on the phone with doctors in like, five different countries." The accusation stung because it was true. I had been consumed by research, by phone calls, by the desperate search for something—anything—that could save Elena. But I was doing it for all of us. Couldn't he see that? "I'm trying to save her life," I said quietly. Jake's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I got that." He left without another word, and I heard the front door slam a moment later. Sophie appeared in the doorway thirty seconds later, her dark hair tangled from sleep, wearing one of Elena's old college sweatshirts. She was fifteen and looked so much like her mother it sometimes hurt to look at her. "You guys fighting again?" she asked, her voice small. "Not fighting. Just... talking." She padded over and sat down across from me, pulling her knees up to her chest. "What's all that?" I hesitated, then decided she deserved the truth. Both kids did. "It's information about a treatment. In Germany. For your mom." Sophie's eyes widened. "Germany? Like, actually Germany?" "There's a doctor there who specializes in cases like your mom's. He's had real success, Sophie. Real, documented success." "But it's in Germany," she repeated, and I could see her mind working through the implications. "How long would you guys be gone?" "Three months. Maybe four, depending on how she responds." The color drained from Sophie's face. "Four months? But that's... that's almost the rest of my sophomore year. And Jake's senior year. He has college applications and—" "I know the timing isn't ideal—" "Isn't ideal?" Her voice cracked. "Mom's sick, Dad. We need her. We need both of you." "And if I don't do this, you won't have her at all." The words came out harsher than I intended, and I watched Sophie flinch like I'd slapped her. Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm sorry," I said immediately, reaching across the table. "Sophie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." But she was already getting up, backing away from me. "Yes, you did." She ran upstairs, and a moment later I heard her bedroom door slam. I sat alone in the kitchen, surrounded by medical documents and financial statements, and felt the weight of every decision pressing down on my shoulders. Elena found me there an hour later. She moved slowly now, each step careful and measured. The chemo had stolen her energy along with her hair. She wore a soft blue scarf wrapped around her head, and even exhausted and ill, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "I heard the doors slamming," she said, lowering herself into the chair Sophie had vacated. "I take it you told them about Germany?" "Told Sophie. Jake already left for practice." She picked up one of the documents, scanning it with the analytical eye she'd honed during her years as a CPA. "This is expensive, Marcus." "I don't care about the money." "You should. That's Jake's college fund. Sophie's too." "They can get loans. Scholarships. But I can't get another you." I reached across the table and took her hand. "Elena, this could work. Dr. Hartmann's success rate with your specific cancer type is forty percent. That's—" "Forty percent chance of remission," she interrupted softly. "Which means sixty percent chance it doesn't work. Sixty percent chance we spend everything we have, uproot our family, leave our children for months, and I still die." "Don't say that." "Marcus." Her voice was gentle but firm. "We have to talk about this realistically. The kids need us. They need you, especially. If I'm gone—" "You're not going to be gone." I stood up abruptly, unable to sit still anymore. "I won't let you be gone. This treatment could save you, Elena. I've read the studies, I've talked to Dr. Hartmann personally. His protocol is revolutionary. It's our best shot." "At what cost?" "Any cost." I turned to face her, and I felt the desperation clawing at my throat. "Any cost, Elena. I will pay anything, sacrifice anything, do anything to keep you here with us. With me." She looked at me for a long moment, her green eyes searching my face. Finally, she nodded. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay, Marcus. We'll try." I should have felt relief. Victory. Hope. Instead, I felt the weight of Sophie's tears and Jake's anger settling into my bones. But I pushed it aside. I would make them understand. Once Elena was better, once she was healthy again, they would see that this was the right choice. They had to.