One morning I saw her making a list of little things she could manage independently: drink enough water, walk to the window, finish half a crossword, call an old friend.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” I told her.

“I’m not proving,” she said.

“I’m remembering that I am still here.”

Cancer treatment had changed her calendar and her stamina, but it had not erased her personality.

She still cared about the garden, still complained when I overcooked pasta, still insisted on checking the newspaper’s crossword answers only after she was truly stuck.

I had been so frightened of losing her that I was beginning to watch her as if she were a collection of symptoms rather than the person who raised me.