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The transplant took. It didn’t take easily — there were two rough weeks of engraftment, a fever spike that sent my heart into my throat, a rash that had every nurse on the floor hovering until it resolved into nothing more than a normal graft response. But six weeks after that Tuesday, Adeline’s counts climbed into a range her oncologist read out loud with something close to wonder in her voice, and four months after that, we walked out of the hospital’s front doors into actual sunlight for the first time in what felt like a different lifetime.
Josh was there for that walk, off duty, out of scrubs, wearing a plain gray T-shirt that made him look startlingly young and startlingly human, like a person instead of a uniform. The ethics board’s reassignment meant he was no longer allowed to be Adeline’s nurse, but nothing in any policy said he couldn’t be her friend, and nothing in any policy governed what had slowly, carefully, begun growing between him and me in the months of recovery that followed — long conversations in hospital cafeterias that had nothing to do with lab results, a hand on my shoulder during the scary nights, an invitation to dinner once Adeline was cleared for outings that I said yes to before I’d even finished thinking it through.
A year later, Adeline started kindergarten with a full head of dark curls that had grown back thicker than before, as if her body wanted to make a point. She still kept a paper calendar, though now it hung on the fridge instead of a hospital wall, and instead of marking Josh’s shifts, she marked the days he came for dinner, circling them in the same stubborn purple marker she’d used to guard her secret.
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