When I was first diagnosed with c.a.n.c.e.r, the world stopped moving for me. It was as if every clock had frozen, and everyone else kept walking while I was trapped in a fog of fear. I was thirty-one, single, and living in a small apartment I could barely afford. The doctors assured me my chances were good if I stuck to treatment, but chemotherapy is brutal, both on the body and the spirit. After my first round, I realized I couldn’t keep working and paying rent on my own. I thought moving back into my mother’s house would be the solution.
I wasn’t naive about my mom, but I believed that in a situation like this, she’d step up. Parents don’t watch their kids wither away and then make things worse, right? That’s what I thought.
At first, she seemed sympathetic. She picked me up from my apartment with a big smile and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me. I’ll take care of everything.”
I almost cried in relief.
But reality set in fast. Within a week, I discovered my mother’s idea of “taking care of me” was far from what I needed.
On my second morning there, I woke up weak, nauseous, and shaky. My limbs felt like lead, my stomach turned from even the smell of toast, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed. But as soon as I walked into the kitchen, I saw a list on the counter, written in her neat handwriting.
“Daily Chores:
– Sweep and mop floors.
– Do laundry.
– Cook dinner.
– Weed the garden.
– Clean the bathroom.”
I blinked, thinking maybe she had written it for herself. But no—when she came in and saw me staring, she clapped her hands together.
“Oh, good, you found it. These will be your responsibilities while you’re here. I can’t be expected to do everything, you know.”
I stood there, stunned. “Mom… I can’t even keep food down. I don’t think I can handle all this.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not bedridden. Moving around will help you. And honestly, you need to contribute if you’re living under my roof rent-free.”
The words stung. I wanted to remind her that I hadn’t chosen this. That I was only there because my body was betraying me. But I was exhausted, and confrontation felt impossible. So I stayed quiet and tried to obey.
The days blurred into a haze of fatigue and chores. I’d scrub toilets while fighting nausea, cook meals I couldn’t eat, and collapse into bed at night too tired to cry. When my food assistance card came in from the state, I thought I’d finally have something that was mine, something to help me get food I could actually stomach. But before I could even use it, my mom took it.
“I’ll keep this,” she said, sliding it into her wallet. “You don’t know how to budget. Besides, I’m the one buying groceries.”
But she wasn’t. Weeks went by, and I realized the food she brought into the house wasn’t bought with my card. She used it for her wine, her snacks, and sometimes for takeout she wouldn’t even share with me. When I asked her about it once, she snapped, “Don’t be ungrateful. You’re lucky I let you stay here at all.”
Then came the car. I had an old sedan, barely holding together, but it was mine. Driving myself to treatment gave me a shred of independence. But one afternoon, I walked outside and the driveway was empty.
“Where’s my car?” I asked, panic rising.
“Oh, that piece of junk? I sold it,” she said casually, sipping her coffee. “It wasn’t safe anyway. Now we don’t have to worry about insurance or repairs.”
“You sold it? Without asking me?”
“You’re not in a position to need a car right now,” she replied flatly. “You can ride with me when I’m available. Or take the bus.”
I wanted to scream, but the strength wasn’t there. The fight had been drained from me long before.
I tried to convince myself I could endure it. Just get through treatment, get stronger, and get out. But my mother wasn’t just indifferent, she was cruel in small, cutting ways. If I didn’t finish all the chores, she’d sneer, “You’re milking this sickness for attention.” If I ate something bland like crackers and broth, she’d mutter, “You should be grateful I let you waste food on rabbit meals.” If I were too tired to talk, she’d say, “You’re so boring these days. No wonder you don’t have a man.”
Her words lodged inside me like shards of glass.
The turning point came not from me, but from my friend, Carla.
Carla and I had been close since college, though life had taken us in different directions. She worked long hours at a marketing firm, but she always checked in on me. She’d text me after every chemo session, bring me smoothies when she could, and remind me I wasn’t alone.
One day, she stopped by unannounced. I had just finished scrubbing the kitchen floor, and I was so weak I had to sit down on the tile because standing was too much. When she walked in and saw me, she froze.
“What the hell are you doing on the floor?” she demanded, rushing over.
I tried to laugh it off. “Just… cleaning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can barely lift your arms. Why are you cleaning?”
Before I could answer, my mom walked in, frowning. “Oh, hi Carla. Don’t mind her—she’s just being dramatic. She has a list of chores, and she knows what needs to be done.”
Carla turned slowly, her voice low and sharp. “A list? You’re making her clean while she’s on chemo?”
My mom bristled. “She’s not an invalid. She needs to contribute.”
Carla didn’t back down. “Contribute? She’s fighting for her life, and you’re treating her like a maid. Are you out of your mind?”
I’d never seen my mother look so uncomfortable. She muttered something about “house rules” and left the room.
Carla knelt beside me. “Is this what it’s been like the whole time?”
I broke. Tears poured down my face, and the words tumbled out: the chores, the stolen card, the car she sold. Carla listened, her hands shaking with anger.
“This is a.b.u.s.3,” she said finally. “She’s exploiting you because you’re too weak to fight back. But I won’t let her keep doing this.”
I panicked. “Carla, please don’t make things worse. If she kicks me out, I have nowhere to go.”
Carla squeezed my hand. “Then you’ll come with me. I don’t care how small my apartment is—we’ll make it work. But you’re not staying here another day.”
True to her word, she sprang into action. She helped me pack my things—what little I had left. When my mother saw us, she exploded.
“You can’t just take her! She lives here!”
Carla glared at her. “She doesn’t owe you anything. You’ve treated her worse than a stranger. You’re lucky I don’t call the authorities for financial a.b.u.s.3.”
My mom sputtered, but Carla didn’t give her the chance to argue. She guided me to her car, loaded my bags, and drove me away. I sat in the passenger seat, trembling with both fear and relief.
Living with Carla was a completely different world. She didn’t have much space, but she made me feel welcome. She stocked the fridge with foods I could actually eat, helped me get to treatments, and refused to let me lift a finger around the apartment. “Your only job is to heal,” she said firmly.
It wasn’t easy. I still faced pain, exhaustion, and uncertainty, but for the first time in months, I felt safe. I felt human again.
Carla also encouraged me to take back control of my finances. With her help, I reported my stolen food benefits card and had it reissued. We filed a complaint about my car, though unfortunately, it was gone for good. Still, reclaiming even small pieces of independence gave me strength.
As weeks passed, my body slowly began to adjust to the treatments. I was still weak, but I could walk around the block, laugh at Carla’s terrible jokes, and feel hope again.
Sometimes I thought about my mother, sitting alone in her house, probably telling her friends she had “sacrificed everything” for me. The thought used to make me angry, but now it just made me sad. She had chosen control over compassion, cruelty over kindness.
In the end, c.a.n.c.e.r revealed more than just the fragility of my body. It showed me who truly loved me and who didn’t. My mom had the chance to be my haven, but she used my weakness as an opportunity to dominate me. Carla, on the other hand, stepped in when I had nothing left and reminded me that love is measured by actions, not words.
I don’t know what the future holds. Remission isn’t guaranteed, and the road is still long. But I do know this: I’ll never again confuse family with loyalty. And I’ll never forget the friend who saved me when I couldn’t save myself.
