"Why didn't you tell me, Mathilde?" It comes out harsher than I want to sound, given the circumstances. I had a talk with her doctor this morning because she's feeling some pain in her legs that wasn't there last week; just to learn she's hiding something bigger than just some pain.

"And what were you supposed to do? Cook some special dinner so this thing would go away for good?"

"There you go again with your sarcasm. I'm just worried about you, and you know why."

"Whatever, Cynthia." Propping her chin on her hand, she looks away, like a scolded child. "It's just a stupid thing on my knee. It will be fine."

"The doctor wants to amputate half your leg, Mom! How's that fine to you?"

Her sigh lasts forever. Pulling off her glasses, she rubs the bridge of her nose.

"It's not like my legs work a lot on their own anyway, Cynthia, and the doctor wants to cut that stupid leg because it's the second time I have this thing in the same spot. The first one did enough damage to my legs as you can probably see."

But she's not getting it. She imagines I know little to none about her condition, but the fact is that she doesn't know how much her doctor told me about it, and she assumes I know the short-hand version only. This relapse isn't as merciful as the first time when she only had some injured bones and muscle.

"You think I'm stupid, right?" I snap at her. I'm so angry at her for trying to keep this from me. "Do you think I can't imagine why they want to cut down your leg? This is no simple problem, Mathilde. This is cancer, and they want to prevent it from spreading!"

She's quick to answer me with a snap of her own.

"And you think I wanted you to know any of this!? You don't need to know any of it, because you already have enough on your plate!" But her eyes well up with tears, and I suddenly feel guilty. She knows how bad this is, and what it means, and wanted to spare me from it. I get it. I really do, but at the same time I don't. She's trying to be selfless, but it turned to be selfish instead. She keeps unleashing her anger and frustration on me, pointing her finger at me instead of trying to stop her tears. "You don't need to be taking care of me! You should be marrying Ian, and taking care of Jeanne, and finally giving some sense to your own life!"

"Enough!" I snap at her, my eyes also brimming with unwanted tears. I can't stand watching her cry like this. "Do you know what would've been of me without you? How much you did for me? For Jeanne as well?"

She lowers her head and her shoulders quiver as she cries silently. It takes her a while to stifle it down, and when she finally lifts her eyes back at me, her voice aged several decades.

"I didn't do it so you'd be stuck with me, Cynthia."

"I'm not stuck with you, Mom!" My voice cracks and becomes old like hers as I allow myself to put my arms around her. "You're my last foster mom... Of course I want to take care of you."

She pats my head gently. Somehow, she calms down before speaking.

"It will be fine, Cynthia." She says, now in her motherly tone. "Even without a leg, I'll still be myself. You'll regret wanting me to be okay, I promise."

And yes. Even in this kind of ugly situation, she still manages to bringback my smile.