On A Family Cruise, My Son Was Laughing. My Daughter-In-Law Was Taking Photos. The Waitress Came Close And Slipped Me A Note Under The Table. It Said: Call For Help. I Stayed Calm. I Tucked The Note And Nodded. Twenty Minutes Later, They Were Tight-Lipped In FRONT OF THE CREW.

He smiled too casually, said he hadn’t seen me at breakfast, asked if I was feeling okay. I nodded, keeping my face steady. He commented on the breeze, the view, the food.

Small talk, too much of it. I nodded along, pretending. Then he said something that made my chest tighten.

He said he and Lyanna had been looking into new care options for me, that maybe it was time to stop running the bookstore, that a condo in Sarasota was quieter, easier, just a few hours from their place. I looked at him, not reacting. He continued, said they had already tooured one on my behalf.

He smiled again, wider this time, told me not to worry. They’d help handle the paperwork. I thanked him, said I’d think about it, but inside I was trembling.

When he left, I locked the door and slid the chair beneath the knob. A ridiculous move on a ship full of cameras and keys. But it gave me something to do—something to control.

I sat back at the desk and took out my notebook. I began to write down everything. Each meal, each symptom, each strange moment since the trip began.

I dated it, timed it, marked who was present. It felt strange but necessary. Like if I could see it all on paper, I could stay one step ahead, because now I knew the truth.

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