The carousel music at Ocean Park should have been cheerful. Instead, it was the soundtrack to my life shattering into a million pieces. I'd come early to set up Noah's birthday party. My five-year-old son deserved the perfect day, even if his mother was dying. That's when I saw them. Jason, my husband of six years, was down on one knee in front of my younger sister, Lily. The afternoon sun caught the diamond ring in his hand—a ring that looked suspiciously like my grandmother's heirloom that had gone "missing" last month. "Lily Chen, will you marry me?" Jason's voice carried across the park. My sister—twenty-three, beautiful, and apparently soulless—squealed with delight. "Yes! Oh my God, yes!" They kissed. Long and deep, like lovers who'd been together for years. My purse slipped from my fingers. The sound made them turn. "Emma." Jason didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. He stood up, keeping his arm around Lily's waist. "We need to talk." I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The tumor in my brain seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, reminding me that I had maybe six months left to live. Six months that these two had apparently been counting down like a prison sentence. "Don't be dramatic," Lily said, touching her stomach in a gesture that made my blood run cold. "We're in love. We have been for over a year." "You're pregnant." It wasn't a question. She smiled. That same smile she'd given me when she borrowed my favorite dress in high school and returned it with wine stains. "Three months. It's Jason's, obviously." Obviously. My legs felt weak. The headaches had been getting worse lately, and Dr. Morrison had warned me that stress could accelerate the tumor's growth. But what did it matter now? I was dying anyway. The stage 4 glioblastoma had already spread too far for treatment. I'd been given the diagnosis three months ago and hadn't told anyone. Three months. The same amount of time Lily had been pregnant. "Where's Noah?" I managed to ask. "With your mother," Jason said. His voice was cold, businesslike. This was the man who'd whispered he loved me on our wedding night. The man who'd cried when Noah was born. "She's bringing him to the party area. Emma, I'm filing for divorce. Lily and I are getting married as soon as it's finalized." "You can't—Noah is my son." "Noah deserves a healthy mother," Lily interjected. She stepped closer, and I could smell her perfume. My perfume. The bottle I'd been looking for all week. "Someone who can actually take care of him. Someone who isn't falling apart." My heart stopped. "What did you say?" Jason and Lily exchanged a glance. A knowing, intimate glance that told me everything. They knew. Somehow, they knew about the cancer. "We found your medical records," Jason said flatly. "Last month, when you left your laptop open. Stage 4 brain cancer, Emma. You're dying. You think I'm going to let my son watch that? You think I'm going to waste the rest of my life playing nurse to a corpse?" The cruelty in his words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled backward, and neither of them moved to catch me. "Mommy!" Noah's voice cut through my shock. I turned to see my mother walking toward us, holding my son's hand. My mother, who was smiling. Who didn't look surprised at all by the scene in front of her. "Mommy, Aunt Lily has a baby in her tummy!" Noah ran to me, his little face bright with excitement. "Daddy told me. And Grandma said Aunt Lily is going to be my new mommy because you're sick." The world tilted. I dropped to my knees in front of my son, gripping his small shoulders. "Noah, baby, I'm your mommy. I'll always be your mommy." "But Daddy said—" "Your father is wrong." I looked up at Jason, hatred burning through my veins. "You told our son? You told him I'm dying?" "He has a right to know," my mother said. She'd reached us now, and her expression was pitying. Pitying, but not surprised. Not angry on my behalf. "Emma, sweetheart, you have to be realistic. Jason and Lily are in love. They're having a baby. Noah needs stability." "I'm his mother!" "You're terminal," Lily said softly. "It's not your fault, but it's the truth. Jason deserves happiness. Noah deserves a complete family. And honestly, Emma, you should be grateful we're willing to take care of your son after you're gone." Grateful. They wanted me to be grateful. "Mommy, don't cry," Noah said, wiping at my tears with his small hands. "It's okay. Daddy says Aunt Lily is really nice. And she's going to have a baby brother or sister for me. I want Aunt Lily to be my mommy too." The words came out of my five-year-old son's mouth with such innocent sincerity that I knew—I knew—they'd been coaching him. Preparing him. Turning him against me while I'd been at doctor's appointments, getting scans, being told I had months to live. I looked at the three of them standing there: my husband, my sister, my mother. All of them watching me with varying degrees of pity and impatience. All of them waiting for me to just accept this. To roll over and die quietly so they could move on with their lives. Something inside me hardened. I'd been planning to die with dignity. To make videos for Noah to watch when he was older. To leave him letters for every birthday, every milestone. I'd been planning to go gently, to make this as easy as possible for everyone. But that was before I knew they'd been counting down the days until I was gone. That was before I knew they'd already replaced me. I stood up slowly, my vision swimming. The tumor pressed against my skull, a constant reminder of my mortality. But I wasn't dead yet. "You want a divorce, Jason?" I said quietly. "Fine. But you're not taking my son. And Lily?" I turned to my sister, who was still touching her stomach like a Madonna. "Enjoy that ring. Grandmother always said it was cursed." I took Noah's hand and started walking toward the parking lot. "Emma, the party—" my mother called after me. "Cancel it," I said without turning around. "I'm sure you three can celebrate without us." As I buckled Noah into his car seat, my phone buzzed. A text from Dr. Morrison: *Emma, we need to discuss your latest scans. Please call me as soon as possible. It's urgent.* I stared at the message, then at my son in the rearview mirror. He was playing with a small toy car, already distracted from the drama. They thought I was going to die quietly. They thought I was going to let them have everything. They were wrong. I had six months left to live. Maybe less, if Dr. Morrison's urgent message meant what I thought it meant. But six months was plenty of time to destroy them all.