The Day She Left

say something.

"Your daughter has leukaemia."

The four words no mother ever wants to hear.

Those simple four words that ruin your life forever.

How could a six-year-old who would sing along with Peppa Pig every day after school have leukaemia?

I stare up blankly at the doctors' face, not entirely sure how to respond. Completely frozen in time, except my mind isn't frozen and a thousand questions and thoughts are racing through my mind.

My mouth refuses to open and utter a response and I'm certain that some invisible force has physically stapled my lips together without my knowledge, preventing me from speaking. Breathing even.

I continue to stare at her face; the woman who with only a few words has managed to shatter my entire world as I've known it for the past six years.

She has an abnormally number of beauty spots on her face: I count one, two, four, seven. A total of eleven. Blimey, eleven beauty spots.

"Miss Brailing?" I wake up from my trance, as though I've been submerged under water and have finally found my way up to the sea shore. The invisible force carefully removing the staples from my lips, allowing me to take the deep that I don't even realise I am holding.

"You understand what I'm saying, don't you Miss Brailing?" Hold on, is this woman having a dig at my age, at a time like this? I may have been a teenage mother, but that doesn't mean I'm uneducated bitch.

Of course, I don't say that.

Leukemia. I learnt this in Biology a few years ago, something about malignant cells dividing my mitosis uncontrollably causing the DNA to mutate and boom, cancer.

My baby had leukaemia and all I could do was continue to think about the abnormal number of beauty spots on the doctors' face.

Suddenly, I feel a surge of vomit begin to travel up my throat. As though all the food I've eaten in the past month hasn't been digested and is threatening to spill.

The temperature in the room rapidly increases by what I assume to be a hundred degrees. Sweat trickles down my neck, my hair begins sticking to my face, and my palms seem so sweaty that I can barely hold onto the handles of the chair that I'm sitting on without them continually sliding down.

A voice attempts to erupt from my throat but my throat closes up around tightly around my larynx, preventing any voice production. I feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes like needles but I don't cry. Not now.

"Lexi has acute lymphocytic leukaemia. ALL is the most common type of childhood leukaemia but it has an extremely high survival rate of up to seventy per cent now. Most children go on to become very healthy and very successful. Of course, when you and your partner are both present, I can discuss further options-"

"My partner?" I glance up at her as if she has said something so absurd, so unbelievably unrealistic.

"I meant Lexi's father, sorry I shouldn't have assumed you are together." She pursued her lips, plastering that oh-so-fake I'm a doctor smile back onto her expressionless face.

"Lexi doesn't have a father," I respond with a pragmatic tone.

"Oh, I'm extremely sorry for your loss."

"He's not dead. Lexi has never had a father." I grit my teeth as I finish my sentence, trying to mimic the superficial smile that the doctor had made earlier.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Lexi asked for her father earlier on...so I assumed she had contact with him." She continues, looking as puzzled as I probably appear to her.

"At a time like this, I think it would be in yours and Lexi's best interest to have him a part of her life. For a child of Sophie's age, it can be beneficial for her health. And I think it's clear that Lexi wants him in her life." She carefully continues, speaking as though she knows Lexi better than her own mother knows her.

"Lexi is a child. She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't have a father, nor does she need one."

She plasters the smile back onto her face, like a rotatable mask fixed on her face. "I was just making a suggestion, I'm sorry if I upset you Miss Brailing.

"We'll need to perform some more scans and tests on Lexi, but from the results we've obtained today, it's clear that Lexi isn't in the earlier stages of cancer. A donor will be absolutely crucial to Lexi's recovery and she'll need one in a matter of months."

"What do you mean not in the earlier stages? You've only just diagnosed her, how can she not been in the first stage of it?!" My voice cracks as I lose all composure and scream at the woman sitting opposite from me.

The voice erupting from me is one that I haven't heard in years but know oh-so-well. A little too well.

It's the voice of a desperate teenager begging her mother not to throw her out of their home, she had nowhere else to go. Begging her to put reputation aside for just a moment to acknowledge her as a human being, not just a puzzle piece in a perfect story.

But pride wins. Pride always wins.

I shake my head visibly, trying to shake the memories.

"Miss Brailing, I've booked you in for a follow-up consultation tomorrow and we can discuss Lexi's treatment in more detail. Right now, It's best you take Lexi home and give yourself a while to digest what I've told you before we begin Lexi's treatment." She places a hand on my shoulder, in an attempt to soothe me.

"She's going to be okay, isn't she? My Lexi is going to be fine, isn't she?" Panic begins to take over my very being.

The world without Lexi didn't seem right. She is the only reason I get out of bed every single morning.

"We're going to try our absolute best. We're going to start treatment as soon as possible. But think about it. About Lexi's father."

I stand up and leave, not paying any heed to the last part of her sentence. I can't stand to be in the room for any longer.

I saunter unhurriedly down the hospital corridor. I watch the kids running along the corridor, carrying on with life as though everything is fine.

As if a six-year-old hasn't just been diagnosed with Leukemia.

I look into the hospital room, and Lexi is lying in the bed, playing with her pigtails on her head.

Her usual tanned skin is un-humanly pale and blotchy patches are visible on her face. Everything about her yells sickness.

How hadn't I realised?

How could I have realised? I'd barely seen her for the past couple of months ever since I decided my job was more important than caring for my child.

"Lexi?" I place my arms around her, cradling her softly before pulling her into my lap. I can feel the tears lurking. But I know I have to be strong for her.

I plant a kiss on the tip of her head, ruffling her soft raven coloured curls.

She glances up at me, pressing her face into my shoulder, wanting me to pick her up.

"Mommy, I wanna go home right now." She whines, and I'm sure any moment she's going to stand up and start stomping around the room.

I grin softly, she was still her usual diva self, a trait that nobody could take away from her.

She's quickly discharged from the hospital. I carry her to the car silently, and place her gently into the front seat, wanting her near me.

When I get into the front seat, I realise she's already asleep and snoring before the car even begins to move.

It's clear as day that something isn't right. If she had been her usual self, she would be demanding me to play a Justin Bieber song and then be singing along with it, mixing up all the words and forcing me to sing along too.

I don't drive to our home. I don't think I'm ready to be alone with just me and the ghost of Lexi's diagnosis in one room. So, I end up at the only other place that I can call home.

Sophie's.