Chapter Text
Isabella or Isa for short, was 27 when she learned she was dying.
The diagnosis came like any other test result, tucked between routine bloodwork and a follow-up scan. Stage IV. Aggressive. Terminal. The doctor spoke gently but the words hit like thunder. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She merely nodded, politely thanked him, and walked out with a pamphlet she never read.
Her family had come to the United States chasing a better life. It hadn’t been easy—years of low-paying jobs, cramped apartments, and paperwork that never seemed to end. But they had made it. They had just bought their first home. Her younger brother had landed a stable job in tech. Her sister was preparing for college. Isa herself was the breadwinner, the steady backbone of the household.
She couldn’t afford to be sick.
But she was sick.
The kind of sickness that crept in unnoticed, stealing energy in small, unnoticeable ways. She skipped meals. Slept through alarms. Her hands trembled when she carried trays at work, and her smile—always her reliable armor—began to falter at the edges. She couldn’t afford the accumulated fees of scans nor consultations. So she hid it. Told herself she’d wait until the next paycheck. Until the next bonus. Until she could find a way that didn’t cost everything.
But her mother noticed.
Of course she did. A stay-at-home mom who had memorized Isa’s rhythms like a favorite song. She knew when Isa was late, when she was too quiet, when her footsteps didn’t sound right coming through the door. She asked once. Isa deflected. She asked again. Isa lied.
And then one morning, her mother stood in the kitchen, holding the crumpled appointment slip Isa had buried in her coat pocket.
After that, everybody knew.
Her mother didn’t yell.
She didn’t ask why didn’t you tell me? Isa saw her once, hunched over the sink, shoulders shaking, trying to rinse rice like nothing was wrong. The sight made Isa feel awful—she never wanted to be the cause of her mothers' grief. When her mother turned, she saw Isa’s face—wide-eyed, stricken—she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and straightened up. From that moment on, she hid it. Not because she stopped grieving, but because she knew Isa needed her strength the most.
Her father didn’t cry.
He didn’t ask questions. He became silent in a way that made the house feel colder. He didn’t say I’m angry or I’m scared. He said we’ll figure it out, like it was a math problem. But Isa knew he was grieving too. He tried asking for more shifts at the warehouse, but there weren’t any. He looked for part-time work—stocking shelves, driving deliveries—but no one called back. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was the way he spoke, careful and accented, more obviously immigrant in a way that made people glance away or speak slower, like they didn’t expect him to understand.
Whatever it was, it made him come home quieter each time, fixing things that didn’t need fixing, staying up late with coffee he didn’t need, watching news he didn’t care about. She saw it in the way he paused before opening her bedroom door, in the way he held her hand too gently, in the way he looked at her mother like he was afraid she’d disappear.
Her brother didn’t say much.
He had just started his first job out of college, commuting two hours each way and coming home exhausted. He asked how she was, but always in passing like on the way to the fridge, while checking his phone. He didn’t know what to do with her illness, or their parents’ grief, so he buried himself in work. He offered to help with bills. Sent her links to articles about recovery. Once left a vitamin bottle on her desk without saying anything. Isa didn’t blame him. He was trying in the only way he knew how—by staying afloat, by staying useful. But sometimes, when he thought she was asleep, she’d hear him in the hallway, pacing. Like he wanted to knock but didn’t know what he’d say if she answered.
Her sister got louder.
She started cleaning more aggressively, slamming drawers, scrubbing counters until her knuckles turned red. She said things like we need to stay positive and you’re stronger than this, like it was a challenge. She bought vitamins in bulk. Printed out meal plans. Rearranged the furniture in Isa’s room without asking, saying it would help her “energy flow better.”
Isa didn’t argue.
Her sister had been saving for college, counting every dollar, tracking tuition deadlines. But now she started spending on supplements, special groceries, even a humidifier she saw online. She never mentioned the money. Just said it’s fine and don’t worry about it whenever Isa asked. It was easier to let her sister take control than to explain what kind of help she actually needed. But sometimes, when her sister left the room, Isa saw her pause in the hallway. Hands clenched. Shoulders shaking.
It had been a few months. The treatments blurred together—appointments, pills, side effects, new routines. Her family clung to every small improvement, every day she didn’t vomit, every lab result that didn’t get worse. But Isa knew. In her body, in her bones, in the way her breath felt thinner each morning.
She didn’t say it out loud. Not when her mother brought soup with turmeric and ginger. Not when her sister rearranged her supplements again. Not when her father handed her a new insurance form with a hopeful look. They needed her to believe, so she pretended. But at night, when the house was quiet, she let herself think about it. About how much everything cost. About how her brother had stopped talking about grad school. About how her sister had stopped saving. About how her father’s hands looked more swollen lately.
She knew what would happen if she didn’t die. They would keep fighting. Keep spending. Keep hoping. And eventually, they’d lose everything.
So she made a choice.
She didn’t tell anyone. She just started planning methodically, the way she handled everything else. She looked up the cheapest funeral option: direct cremation, no embalming, no viewing, no service. Just the body, the paperwork, and a basic urn. It cost less than a thousand dollars if she prepaid.
She gathered her meager savings. Paid what she could in advance. Left instructions in a folder labeled “In case,” tucked behind her drawer. She even drafted a short obituary, simple and kind, like she hoped they’d remember her. Beside it, she placed another folder. Inside were letters for each of them. She told them not to blame themselves. That she knew this was fucked up. That she would rather have them hate her in a warm, stable house than love her into homelessness
She wrote that she loved them. That she was proud of them. That she had tried. That she hoped, someday, they’d understand.
She checked her life insurance policy again. It had been active for more than two years, past the suicide clause and contestability period. That meant her family would still receive the payout—even if she died by suicide—as long as the premiums were paid and no fraud was involved.
She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want them to lose everything trying to keep her alive. She didn’t want her sister to give up college, her brother to drown in debt, her parents to grow old in exhaustion.
If she lived, they’d keep fighting.
If she died, they’d grieve but they’d survive.
She timed it carefully. A day when no one would be home for hours. She laid everything out—folders, keys, her ID. Took the pills. Closed her eyes.
And that was it.
I love you.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.