After her last chemo treatment, all my daughter wanted was a calm pool day. I reserved two lounge chairs, clipped our towels, and left for smoothies. When we returned, a stranger was in our spot, our towels were in the trash, and her cruel words nearly ruined the first good day Mia had in months.Mia finished her last round of chemo 11 days before the resort trip.Not the kind of finished where everyone claps and the story ends. The kind where the doctor smiles carefully and says, “We’re done for now,” because everybody in that room knows hope has learned to speak cautiously.Still, Mia heard the important part.Done.Mia finished her last round of chemo 11 days before the resort trip.She looked at me from the exam table, thin legs swinging under the paper gown, one hand resting over the hospital bracelet she still refused to take off.”Can we go somewhere with a pool, Mom?” she asked.

I blinked.”A pool?””Yes. Like a regular kid.”I booked the resort that afternoon.It was only an hour from home, but to Mia it might as well have been Hawaii.She packed three swimsuits though she had never worn them before, her pink goggles, a paperback she had no intention of reading, and the stuffed dolphin one of the nurses had given her during treatment.At check-in, the front desk clerk gave us towel clips with our room number written on the tags.”Just clip your towels to the reserved chairs overnight or before breakfast,” she explained. “The pool gets crowded fast.”I thanked her.