My ten daughters left me alone on Christmas night. They said, “We have our own lives, Mom. Stop interfering.” By morning, their bank accounts were empty, and every house they were counting on was sold. My phone had 76 missed calls.

The words landed like stones. Frank’s hand tightened around mine.

“How bad is stage three?” I heard myself ask.

Dr. Sullivan looked at me—kind eyes, tired eyes. “It means the cancer has spread beyond the pancreas to nearby lymph nodes, but not to distant organs yet. We can treat it. Chemotherapy, possibly radiation. But I won’t lie to you. It’s going to be difficult.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Frank’s voice was steady, calmer than mine.

“With aggressive treatment, we’re looking at a five-year survival rate of about ten to fifteen percent.”

The room went very quiet.

“How long do I have?” Frank asked. “If I don’t do treatment.”

“Frank,” I started.

He squeezed my hand. “How long?”

Dr. Sullivan paused. “Six to twelve months.”

I called Jeffrey from the hospital parking lot. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone twice. Frank sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at nothing. Jeffrey answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up? I’m actually in the middle of—”

“Jeff.” My voice cracked. “Your father has cancer.”

Silence. Then: “What?”

“Cancer. Pancreatic. Stage three.”

I could hear voices in the background. Someone laughing. Jeffrey covered the phone, said something muffled to whoever was there.

“Jesus,” he said. “Okay. How bad is it?”

“Bad. They’re saying five-year survival is ten percent.”

“Oh my god.”

Another pause.

“Okay. I’ll—I’ll call you tonight, Mom. I’m in the middle of a deposition. I can’t really talk right now.”

“Jeffrey—”

“I’ll call you tonight. I promise.” Click.

I sat there with the phone in my hand, staring at the screen. Frank reached over and took it from me gently.

“He’s busy,” he said. “He’ll call.”

He didn’t call that night. He called three days later.

I called Abigail next. She answered on the first ring.

“Mom? What’s wrong? You never call in the middle of the day.”

“Abby.” I couldn’t stop the tears this time. “Your father has cancer.”

She gasped—actually gasped, like someone had hit her. “Oh my god. Mom, what? What kind? How bad?”

“Pancreatic. Stage three.”

I heard her start to cry. “Oh my god. Oh my god. What do we do?”

“There’s a meeting with the oncologist next Thursday to discuss treatment options. Can you come next Thursday?”

She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her flipping through something. A calendar, maybe.

“Let me check my schedule. I have parent-teacher conferences Monday through Wednesday, and Patrick’s mom is visiting Thursday.”