That word lodged itself in my chest.

The day before, the hospital had given me a number.

$85,000.

That was the cost to fast-track Ethan into a specialized trial that might—might—give him a chance. Insurance appeals had failed. Savings were gone. Loans exhausted. The financial counselor had gently reminded me that “time is a factor.”

As if my son were an equation.

“I asked Mom and Dad for help,” I told my sister.

“And?” she asked.

“They said no.”

There was a subtle shift in her tone, like inconvenience creeping in.

“You can’t make everything about you,” she sighed.

“It’s not about me,” I whispered. “It’s about Ethan.”

She softened her voice, but it still stung. “They’re stressed too. This wedding is huge.”

I laughed once. “Huge.”

“Don’t start,” she warned.

“What? Say the truth?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Dramatic.

I pictured Ethan pale in his hospital bed, cracking jokes to keep adults calm.

Two months earlier, I’d sat across from my parents with paperwork spread out like a plea.

I’d done the research. Found the program. Created repayment plans.

My father leaned back and said the sentence that split something inside me.

“We’re not paying eighty-five thousand dollars for a maybe.”

A maybe.