At night, every night, my mom would tuck me under my blanket which had Canuck logos plastered all over it. I would always be laying on the bottom bunk of my bunk-bed. Though the top was vacant, I always felt more comfortable on the bottom for some reason. She would never let me go a sleep without pressing her lips against my forehead and telling me how much she loved me. She would then dim my lights as she walked out of my teal walled room and wish me a good night’s sleep. At this point in time, I was immature, adolescent and loving life. One day my mom had been out for a jog in the cool winter air of November after she had finished work. I was sitting in my kitchen. My dad was chopping up roast beef which had just finished broiling in the slow cooker, and the smell of cooked onions and meat filled the house. My mom returned from her jog, seemingly upset. I was pestering my dad about letting me watch TV and my sister had been doing her homework in the other room. My mom proceeded to explain to my dad how she fell during her jog and that something didn’t feel right. She picked up a blue point pen and showed him how she was unable to compose her letters properly. She couldn’t write her name. My dad was incredulous at how my mom struggled to write and immediately took her to the doctor. Worried for my mother, I asked if I could come along but they said I had to stay home and watch my sisters. I explained to my older sister what had happened and she told me not to worry, saying it was probably just the flu. She told me to leave her alone because she needed to focus on her homework. I went downstairs to watch TV even though my dad said I couldn’t, and I remember feeling quite guilty of it afterwards. I woke up the next day to the morning dew of winter making my window less and less transparent. My parents called me and my two sisters, one younger and the other older, into the living room. After intensive back and forth retorts between me and my parents as they tried to get me out of bed, in a lackadaisical, tepid manner, I complied and followed them to the living room where my sisters were already curled up beside our fireplace. The three of us had no idea of the intensive caliber of what we were about to hear. They explained to us that after going to the doctor and doing multiple brain scans, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. Upon hearing this, my older sister broke into tears. The contagious, sorrowful cries of my sister spread to my little sister, then me and then both my parents. My little sister and I did not fully understand the concept of what it meant and the severity of it. The morning sun was shining through the still slightly transparent window. Soon my dad drove the three of us to our nearby school and dropped us off for the day. Months later after intensive coma therapy and the use of many prescriptions, my mom came home after a long surgery. When I saw her I burst into tears and ran away. She had a massive metal stitching stretching around her forehead to where her ears were. It swooped around in rings and went in and out of her head. Behind the stitching’s was a massive scar which was in plain sight due to her hair loss from the chemo. It scared me. She didn’t look like herself. She came and found me hiding in my closet and got me to come out. A few hours later I fell asleep in my parent’s bed between her and my dad. 5 months later, she was hospitalized and unable to talk due to the massive tumor growth. She could still understand us, and most importantly still smile. One day I was sitting in my car with my little sister playing ridiculous and completely pointless games as we always used to do. My dad was picking up my older sister from a friends and went in to get her. When we were all seated in the car, he said he had to tell us something. His voice was quivering as if he was on a bumpy roller coaster, unable to stay monotone. He told us that our mom died early that day. Of course, we all burst into