sdMy husband and my sister laughed while my daughter Holly was dying in a hospital bed. Then he smirked and said, “Holly had a good run. We need that money for my son with your sister.” I slapped him across the face and made one phone call that destroyed them both.

Six months later.

The pediatric oncology ward of Children’s Hospital Boston was filled with the sound of laughter rather than beeping monitors.

Holly sat cross-legged on her hospital bed—which was now draped in colorful quilts sent by well-wishers from across the country—carefully coloring a picture of a superhero dog while eating a cup of real strawberry ice cream. Her hair was starting to grow back in soft, dark curls, and her cheeks held a healthy, rosy glow.

Marissa sat nearby, reviewing final corporate expansion documents for Aura Holdings, the parent company she had officially moved from Atlanta to Boston to distance herself permanently from her past.

The door opened softly, and Dr. Sterling walked in with a clipboard, smiling brightly.

“Well, Mrs. Brooks, I have the final lab results from yesterday’s comprehensive panel,” Dr. Sterling announced.

Marissa’s heart skipped a beat, even though she already knew the answer. “And?”

“Complete remission,” the doctor beamed. “The cancer cells are undetectable. Her bone marrow is clear. Holly is officially cancer-free.”

Holly dropped her crayons, her eyes going wide. “Does that mean I can go home to our new house, Mommy?”

Marissa dropped her tablet, ran to the bed, and swept Holly up into her arms, burying her face in her daughter’s neck as tears of pure joy soaked her shirt. “Yes, my sweet girl! We’re going home!”

“And can I bring Captain Bun?” Holly asked seriously, holding up the worn stuffed rabbit.