The envelope from the clinic has been sitting on my kitchen table for three days now. It is just a plain white square of paper. It does not look like much. But every time I walk past it, my heart gives a little skip.

It feels heavier than any piece of mail I have ever held in my life.

I am seventy-eight years old. I have lived a good, long life out here on this land. I have seen the seasons change more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. I never expected to be standing in my kitchen at this age, staring at a piece of paper that decides how much longer I get to keep breathing.

The doctor told me I have a choice. That is what they call it, anyway. A choice. He said I have eighteen months if I go through with their treatment. He said I have six months if I do not.

The treatment is not cheap. It costs one hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars. My insurance company looked at the paperwork and told me it is experimental. They said they will not pay a single penny for it.

I have exactly one hundred and ninety thousand dollars in my savings account. I have been putting that money away since the day my first grandson was born. Every single dollar, every birthday card cash gift, every extra shift I worked at the cannery back when I was younger, it all went into that account. It was for college. It was for their future.

Judd came over on Tuesday to help me with the grocery shopping. He is my oldest. He has always been the one to look after me since his father passed. I showed him the letter.

I wanted to see if I was crazy for even thinking about using that money.

He sat down right there in the chair across from me. He looked at the numbers and then he looked at me. He took my hand and held it tight. His grip was warm and steady.

“Mama, you fight,” he said.

I looked at him and I felt a bit of hope bloom in my chest.

“We will find another way for the kids,” he said.

He meant it. I know he did. He is a good man, just like his father was. He believes in miracles and he believes in me. But I looked over at Lucinda, my daughter, standing by the sink. She would not even turn around to look at me.

She was just staring out the window at the old apple tree in the yard. Her back was stiff as a board. She has always been the practical one. She knows how much that college fund meant to me. She knows how much it means to the grandkids.

“She always said those babies come first,” she said to the window.