“She said eighty-seven,” Lucas said, his eyes wide and analytical. “What does that mean, Mom?”

“I don’t know yet, sweetie,” I said, stroking his hair. “I don’t know.”

An hour passed, then two.

My phone buzzed in my purse, a text from my lawyer telling me the custody hearing was postponed.

I didn’t care about the hearing; I cared about the air in my mother’s lungs.

A doctor in green scrubs walked into the waiting room.

His badge read Dr. Sterling, Chief of Surgery.

He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot behind round glasses.

“Are you Emily?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, standing up. “How is she?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“She is stable, but we found something highly unusual during the scan,” he said.

He motioned for me to step into the hallway, away from the boys.

I told Lucas to watch his brother and stepped out.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your mother has a massive calcified mass in her abdomen,” Dr. Sterling said.

I stared at him, my mind blank. “A tumor?”