Autumn could not stop running. She had been in cross country since high school and never missed her morning runs except for when she was in the third trimester with Elena. Running was her therapy, her escape, her way of reconciling who she was with what she had done.

It had only been twelve hours since they left the hospital in yesterday’s evening mist. Ninety days minus zero point five equals eighty-nine and an half days. How could she have not known, how could she have not felt it? She was so used to convincing herself every single time she felt bloated, brain fogged, or just simple pain, that it was just due to her not being very adept at managing her cortisol levels, or just plain seasonal allergy. But no, it was much bigger than that. It was stage IV cancer, metastasized, terminal, cancer. Very few patients respond to treatments, the Oncology doctor said, very few survive over three months, said the Palliative Care Nurse.

Autumn continued to run. Amazed that her body could still be running. She was lean, her hair still looked glossy, her skin still plump - she was the definition of health, the definition of “looking good for her age”, wasn’t she? The doctors must have gotten their records wrong. But no, when they pulled up her CT scan to show how the sickness had seeped into her brain and taken over her lymphatic system - over twenty lymph nodes were enlarged, there was no mistake - she had felt the tugging and the pulling inside her for weeks. She thought it was just cramps, maybe even early menopause. Oh how she wish it was just early menopause. Her stomach cramped right then, but she won’t let it stop her from running.

Autumn eventually ran toward home. A large Spanish styled villa in the middle of the most desirable zip code of Orange County. When she reached her doorstep, bent over, she wiped her forehead of sweat and her face of tears. How was she going to tell her daughter, who just hosted her baby boy’s first birthday in their backyard, and her young sister, who relied on her ever since their parents passed. And her husband… who remained her rock even though he wasn’t the man who she sought shelter and protection against the horrid news.

She tried to insert the key into the door lock, her hands trembled too much and she dropped the key and collapsed on her doorstep. She cried more. There was no hope. No new beginning. Her plans had been squashed. God must have known what she was up to, what she was about to do, and this was an act of divine intervention, divine retribution, to make sure that she would not soil her sacred marriage further.

The door opened to reveal her steadfast husband. Whom, upon seeing that she was crumbled at the doorstep, he leaped out to help her. But before he could reach her, Autumn stood up. “I’m okay.” She said, and looked at him. He looked like he had aged ten years over night. Did she look the same? Autumn wondered if he thought she was less beautiful. He walked toward her and pulled her in his chest. He cupped her face and planted a long kiss on her forehead.

“We will get through this.” He said. Looking into her eyes, trying to search for the woman he was still so in love with, trying to search of the reciprocal affection, and found only blankness.

“No, I won’t. But you will.” She responded, extracting herself from his embrace and walked inside the house. Leaving him dumbfounded by the front door.