table in her carefully ironed blouse, shoes neatly laced, hands folded in her lap.
“I don’t want chemo,” she said before I could speak. “I’ve lived a long life. I want to be home. With my grandson.”
I wanted to scream, to bargain, to tell her I’d seen treatments work, that there was a chance. But I saw her eyes—clear, firm. I knew she’d already made her decision.
Pedí una licencia de la escuela, listo para tirar todo y permanecer a su lado.
Ella se negó.
“Seguirás estudiando”, dijo. “Estás