I unfolded the paper in the lobby, while the glass doors hummed shut behind me. It was a printout of a fundraising page titled Help Lydia Beat Cancer. A photo of me bald in a hospital bed smiled up from the top, one I had never agreed to share. Beneath it, a bold total glared back: $63,000. I had never seen this page in my life.

“Your mother created it the week of your diagnosis,” my doctor whispered. “She told donors you were too sick to be contacted. Yesterday, someone from this family called our billing office, asking how to release the remaining funds.” He flipped the page. Four withdrawals were listed, each with a date. The last one posted at 9:15 this morning, an hour before my bell. The name beside it was Joanna’s, and in the notes line, someone had typed: closing costs.