My professor thought three little words would reveal something about our families. She had no idea those words were about to cost me the only family I had left.
Chapter 3
Zurich felt clean, quiet, and impossibly far away.
The clinic had rented a small apartment near the hospital. On the first evening, I noticed a lavender candle on the kitchen windowsill.
I threw it away.
On Monday morning, Dr. Miller sat across from me with my newest scans.
“The tumor has grown since your last imaging,” he said. “The brain lesion is also progressing.”
I folded my hands tightly.
“Can you operate?”
“We can try.”
“Then try.”
His eyes held mine. “The surgery could kill you.”
“So can doing nothing.”
He nodded.
“Friday.”
The next four days were filled with blood tests, scans, breathing exercises, and paperwork. I avoided American news. I refused to search Julian’s name.
Then, Thursday evening, Tristan called.
“I gave him the transfer documents.”
I sat on the edge of my bed. “After the reception?”
“Yes.”
“How did he react?”
Silence.
“Tristan?”
“He left.”
“Left where?”
“The wedding.”
My stomach tightened.
Tristan explained that Victoria had been surprised by the lavender theme too. Julian had personally changed nearly every decoration shortly before the ceremony. She had assumed it was an extravagant romantic surprise.
Then Julian received my transfer agreement.
“He read the first page and went white,” Tristan said. “He drove straight home.”
I closed my eyes.
“He found your room empty. Martha told him you left that morning. He started calling everyone.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“He found your broken SIM card.”
I said nothing.
“Hazel, he’s scared.”
I thought of the blood on my bedroom floor.
Cheap tricks.
I thought of six months of locked doors and a man turning away whenever I approached.
“Whatever he feels now,” I said quietly, “it came too late.”
“Maybe.”
“I have surgery tomorrow.”
Tristan exhaled.
“Then I won’t keep you.”
“Thank you for everything.”
That night, I held my parents’ photograph against my chest.
“I’m not scared anymore,” I whispered.
Maybe that was a lie.
But I slept.
The operation lasted eleven hours.
When I woke, a silver-haired recovery nurse named Ingrid was adjusting my IV.
“Did it work?” I croaked.
Her eyes were too kind to lie.
“You survived the surgery. Tonight, that is enough.”
For several days, survival became my entire world.
Pain. Nausea. Ice chips. Sleep. More pain.
Ingrid appeared whenever things were worst. She never offered empty encouragement. She simply remained beside me.
One afternoon she said, “You don’t have anyone coming, do you?”
“My parents are dead.”
“And everyone else?”
I watched snow gather outside the window.
“They have their own lives.”
Ingrid nodded.
“I’ve been a nurse thirty-one years. I’ve seen people surrounded by families who gave up. I’ve seen people with nobody fight like hell.”
“What makes the difference?”
She considered that.
“Somewhere along the way, they decide they still belong in the world.”
That sentence stayed with me.
A week later, Dr. Miller returned with new scans.
“The surgical margins are better than expected.”
I stared at him.
“The brain lesion hasn’t grown.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m no longer talking to you about weeks.”
My breath caught.
“Months?”
“Possibly much more, with treatment.”
I should have been overjoyed.
Instead, I began crying.
I had prepared myself so carefully to disappear that the possibility of staying felt terrifying.
“I’ll do the treatment,” I said.
That evening, Ingrid brought in a package.
“No return address.”
Inside was a glass jar filled with dried lavender.
Under it lay a note.
I recognized Julian’s handwriting immediately.
I know where you are.
I’m coming.
