“No!” My son cries, beginning to weep. “It- it can’t,” he gasp between sobs, “be right. Must have been a mistake.”

The nurse, with her tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, says, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

That statement wrenches me out of my shock. “I’m not dead yet,” I mutter.

“The treatment is very expensive. I’m afraid that there is only one cure, and it’s a relatively new one. You aren’t very far from the first person to be diagnosed with the disease.”

“So are you saying that there’s a chance it wouldn’t work?” I ask.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I make the mistake of looking back at my son. His eyes are already puffy, and his gaze seems to pierce my soul. “Mom, you have to try. Even if it’s a slim chance, it’s better than none.”

I feel tempted to just let myself slip away. Why not? It’s a selfish thought, but why couldn’t my son just try to cope without me? His father passed long ago, but he has a caring aunt who adores him. But the pain in his eyes say otherwise. He needs his mother.

I take in his messy brown hair, mischievous face, and light blue eyes. I’d miss him too much to go without a fight.

I take a deep breath. “How much does the treatment cost?” I ask.

The operation will be underway soon enough. I have a sinking in my feeling in my stomach knowing what I am about to do.

“Your payment, please?” The nurse holds out a small black box.

I sigh. At times like these, I wish that the currency was something else. I’d rather give any tangible item away than my memories, but this is just the way our world works. This treatment is particularly pricey, and I’ll miss my memories dearly, this one particularly.

I nod, and before placing my hand on the box I say a silent goodbye. I just hope that it’ll be enough, my living, and that he will forgive me.

I’ll miss you, my son.

I think of him waiting for me at home, and my heart nearly breaks. I’ll come back for him. I must.

I let the memories seep out of my mind, grateful to be able to relive them once more.

_He slips and falls off of his skateboard, tears running down his dusty face. _

_“I love you, Mom,” he mumbles, his mouth full of cookie dough. _

_He cries, shoulders shaking with sobs. _

_He looks up and grins. “Mom, I made you breakfast.”_

_His eyes bright, he saunters through the doors on his first day of elementary school. _

_“Mom, promise me something. You’ll come back home, right? The treatment will work. It has to.”_

I blink. It’s over. My head feels fuzzy, and I feel like I’m missing something. There’s a puzzle, but I can’t find the final piece.

“Are you ready for your treatment?” The nurse is standing nearby, a sympathetic look on her face.

I’m driving home. The treatment was successful, so I should be celebrating, but somehow I’m not in the mood.

As soon as I open the door to my house, I scream. A boy I can’t recall ever seeing before is sitting on the couch, looking defeated. He looks to be about ten years old, with messy brown hair, a mischievous face, and light blue eyes.

“Mom! I thought you were never coming!”

Mom?

He jumps up and embraces me, tears streaming down his face.

As soon as he lets go, I take a step back.

“Who… who are you?” I ask.

He gives a forced laugh as if I’ve told a bad joke. “Your son.”

“But… I don’t have a son.”

Do I?