I thought the hardest part of this year was watching my teenage daughter try to be brave while I went through chemo. Then one phone call from her school turned our whole life inside out.My daughter Ava is 15, and for most of her life it has been just the two of us.Her father, Daniel, was declared dead when she was four.Car accident on a rain-slick road outside town. Fire. Closed casket. A police officer at my kitchen table saying, “I’m so sorry.” A funeral I barely remember. A death certificate I signed through a fog so thick I could hardly read my own name.A few weeks ago, my hair started coming out in clumps.So I cut my hair short, wrapped scarves around my head, and tried to act like it did not matter.Then one afternoon she came home from school, dropped her backpack by the door, and held out a box.”I got you something,” she said.I was at the kitchen table pretending to drink soup. “From where?”

“Open it.”I looked up at her. “Ava… how?”She swallowe.She didn’t answer right away. She just reached up and pushed back the hood of her sweatshirt.Her hair was gone.I stood up so fast my chair scraped hard across the floor.”What did you do?”She said quickly, “I sold some of it, and the rest I gave to Ms. Carla at the salon. She made the wig for you.”She swallowed and looked down. “I knew we couldn’t afford one. And I know you say it’s just hair, but I also know you miss feeling like yourself.”I laughed through tears.I crossed the kitchen in two steps and pulled her into me so hard she let out a little sound.She pulled back just enough to look at me. “You’re my mom.”That was it. I cried. Full-on, ugly, helpless crying.She hugged me again and muttered, “Okay, wow. I was trying to do a nice thing. I did not expect this much sobbing.”I laughed through tears. “You are unbelievable.””You raised me.”She shrugged. “You gave up way more.”The next morning, she went to school and I went to chemo.