One rainy day in September I was sitting at the kitchen counter, drawing peacefully. It was a nice place to work—old, but clean. The counters were yellowed from all of the cooking that had been done on them, and the cupboards were outdated by about thirty years. It always smelled of candles, a new scent every week. That day a pumpkin pie candle burned on the table. It smelled almost exactly like the pumpkin pie my mom made on Thanksgiving. I leaned back and studied my drawing. It was of a girl with wide eyes and thick, dark hair staring off into the distance. I had never really been into art until two months ago, when my mother was suddenly diagnosed with leukemia, an unforgiving type of cancer, and while she was in the hospital I was sent to various family friends' homes to live, and I didn’t have much else to do.

My Dad stepped in the back door, his glasses fogged. He took off his helmet and dried his glasses.
"Hey Dad! How was work?” I said. Obviously he wasn't happy, so I was trying to cheer him up.
“Hi, Hannah…” He looked pained. His Low eyebrows framed concerned eyes. His shoulders were tense as  he walked into the kitchen, refusing his daily after-work snack, usually leftovers from last night’s meal.
“Family meeting!” He called up the stairs grimly.
Ever since Mom had been diagnosed, they had become more and more frequent, which meant more and more bad news. My last flicker of hope for Mom was being pinched out, ever so slowly.

When all of my siblings and I (seven of us total) were seated on the mismatched living room couches, Dad cleared his throat. But he said nothing. It was silent—the deafening kind of silent. The only sounds were my heart beating, afraid, and the pit-pat of the raindrops on the roof.
Jonah broke the silence first. "Why do we have to have these meetings?" He was my ten year-old brother.
“Just because we do!" My sister Lena snapped, her shoulders tense. She had been working hard, doing most of what Mom would have done since the diagnosis. Cleaning, cooking, and laundry ate up most of her free time. The rest of my siblings and I would sometimes offer our services, but for the most part she worked alone, with one earbud dangling around her while the other provided her with music to enjoy.
A second time, my Dad cleared his throat, but this time he said something. "Your mother... Your mom has pneumonia. Her lungs are filling up with fluid, and…” he paused for a painful moment. “The doctors have given her a twenty percent chance to to live." He was crying. Dad never cried.
“What’s pneumonia?” Esther questioned. Although no one replied, she could tell by our gloomy expressions that it was not good.

I felt like the whole world had just been thrown on my shoulders. I was crushed. Without being conscious of it, I ran out of the room. For what seemed like an eternity, I sat on my bed, staring at my blue and purple walls, trying to process it. There were no tears, I did not even feel sad. I just felt confused and angry. Angry at cancer for existing, angry at the doctors for not trying hard enough, angry at my Dad for telling me, and angry at every person in the world with a healthy mother. My last bit of hope was gone.

The following months were long and miserable. Mom hadn't been home since July, and the Christmas season was half over. Tree decorating was lonely, and we didn’t make caramel corn to share with our neighbors and friends. Esther and Lydia begged Dad to let us make gingerbread houses, and he agreed that we could, but the little houses crumbled without mom’s red and green “toothpaste” glue frosting. Three hours away, she was mustering her last bit of strength, trying to heal. She had denied the doctor’s prediction that she wouldn't live, but she still was not much better. On weekends we would sometimes go visit her, but other than that all I could do was dream of her coming home.

She came home on Christmas eve, for the first time since she had been diagnosed.  Her hair was all gone, and she was much thinner, but her smile still radiated beauty. We showed her the new flooring and all of our new treasures that we had collected over the time that she was away, and I even let her look at some of my art, which she marvelled at. It was the best thing to be able to see her anytime, although most of the time she was sleeping, so I couldn't really talk to her. We could not hug her because of her weak immune system, but her presence was wonderful. We spent Christmas together opening presents, laughing, and enjoying being together as a family again.

A few months later, when Mom's condition had improved a lot, she told us kids that while she was in the hospital, she wanted so badly to let go and give up, but someone told her to remember us, so she persevered through the needles, chemo, radiation, loneliness, and pain, because she knew that there was still something worth hanging on for. She is, without a doubt, the strongest person I have ever met.