56
The morning was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that wasn't comforting. The kind that made every sound—every breath, every heartbeat—feel louder than it should.
Amanda stood in Ericka's kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she'd made more out of habit than desire. She hadn't touched it. Her eyes kept flicking to the clock.
6:14 AM.
The car would be there in fifteen minutes.
Behind her, the soft shuffle of footsteps made her turn. Ericka appeared in the hallway, wrapped in her robe, her hair still slightly damp from the shower. She looked pale but polished. Steady but tired.
She always looked steady.
But Amanda could see the cracks.
Ericka gave her a small, strained smile. "You're up early."
Amanda gave her a look. "You're having surgery. Did you think I was going to sleep in?"
Ericka didn't respond, just moved to the table and sat down slowly. She looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.
Amanda walked over and crouched in front of her. "How are you feeling?"
Ericka let out a breath, almost a laugh. "Like I've rehearsed this moment so many times in my head, and it still doesn't feel real."
Amanda reached for her hand. "It's real. But you're not doing it alone."
A pause.
Then: "I know."
It was the softest truth Ericka had said all morning.
The drive to the surgical center was silent, but not in the way it had been days before. It wasn't heavy with tension or avoidance.
It was quiet in the way people are quiet when they're thinking too many thoughts to speak.
Amanda kept her hand on Ericka's knee the entire ride, her thumb brushing slow circles through the fabric of her pants. Ericka stared out the window, watching the early morning light skim over buildings and empty sidewalks.
When they arrived, Amanda helped her out of the car and didn't let go of her hand as they walked inside.
The surgical intake nurse greeted them with a warm smile and gentle instructions. Amanda handled the paperwork while Ericka sat quietly, her lips pressed together in that familiar, determined line.
But Amanda saw the way her foot tapped softly against the floor.
The nerves were there.
The fear was there.
Amanda sat beside her again, their shoulders just barely touching.
Ericka whispered, "It's not knowing that gets to me. Not the surgery, not the incision. It's the waiting. Waiting to find out if it's gone. If they got it all."
Amanda turned toward her, voice low but steady. "Whatever happens, we'll face it. One step at a time."
Ericka gave her a look—one of those unreadable ones Amanda had learned to translate.
It meant I hear you. I need you. Please don't leave.
"I'm not going anywhere," Amanda added, just to be sure.
At 7:48 AM, the nurse called her name.
Ericka stood slowly, smoothing the hem of her soft zip-up hoodie.
Amanda stood with her, adjusting the small overnight bag she'd packed for her—essentials, just in case. Ericka had insisted she wouldn't need it, but Amanda knew better.
Before Ericka followed the nurse behind the partition, she turned back, hesitating.
Amanda stepped forward and pulled her into a tight, grounding hug.
She whispered into her hair, "You're stronger than this moment."
"I'm trying to believe that," Ericka replied, voice muffled against Amanda's shoulder.
Amanda pulled back just enough to look at her. "Believe it. And when you can't—I'll believe it for you."
Ericka blinked quickly, her eyes glassy but dry.
"Will you be here when I wake up?"
Amanda smiled gently. "Try getting rid of me."
The waiting room felt too big. Too bright.
Amanda sat curled in one of the corner chairs with a book in her lap she never once opened. Her phone buzzed a few times with messages from work, but she ignored them all. She'd already cleared Ericka's calendar for the next three days and rerouted all internal reports to herself.
For the next few hours, the company could survive without its CEO.
Amanda wasn't going anywhere.
She thought about the last few weeks—the way Ericka had kept this diagnosis buried under layers of power and precision. The way she'd shown up to every meeting like nothing was wrong, hiding a ticking clock beneath designer silk.
And now here they were.
Amanda's hands trembled as she checked the time again. She hated not knowing what was happening behind those walls. Hated that the only thing she could do was wait.
She whispered to herself, Please get it all. Please let this be enough.
And then, finally—nearly two hours later—a doctor appeared at the door.
"Amanda?"
She stood immediately. "Yes?"
The surgeon smiled, calm and tired but reassuring. "She's in recovery. The lumpectomy went very well. We removed the tumor and surrounding margins as planned. No complications. She's sleeping now, but you can go sit with her."
Amanda exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.
"Thank you," she whispered.
When Amanda stepped into the recovery room, her breath caught.
Ericka lay in the bed, pale and still, a soft line of tubing looping from her IV, her chest rising and falling beneath a thin blanket. Her hair was a little messy. Her lips slightly chapped. But she looked peaceful.
Like the storm had passed. At least for now.
Amanda pulled the chair close and sat down beside her, brushing a few strands of hair away from her forehead.
"You did it," she whispered.
Ericka didn't stir.
Amanda reached for her hand and held it gently between both of hers.
She stayed like that for hours—through the quiet beeping of machines, through nurses checking vitals, through every minute that passed like a deep breath slowly letting go.
And in the silence, Amanda made a new promise.
Whatever comes next—radiation, recovery, fear—I'm staying.
For all of it.