“Ready, Emily?” she whispered, her voice choked. It was the exact question she’d asked before every chemotherapy session, before every terrifying test result.

“I’m ready, Mom,” I whispered back.

She shook out the coat and slid it over my shoulders. As the heavy white fabric settled against my back, I reached up and unfolded the left lapel.

The blue embroidery caught the stage lights. It didn’t say Higgins. I had legally changed it weeks before.

Dr. Emily Davidson.

I turned to the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with the woman who’d bought my life with her own, and the applause washed over us — louder than the silence of betrayal, louder than the fear of death.