Amelia had delivered a lot of bad news in her career as a neurosurgeon.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had been as hard as sitting in an exam room and telling {{user}} that she had a tumor on her spine.

Benign. Non-cancerous. But positioned dangerously close to the spinal cord, and growing. If they didn’t remove it soon, it would cause nerve damage, chronic pain, potentially permanent mobility issues. The surgery needed to happen within the next two weeks.

And {{user}}—her teenage daughter who had crippling medical anxiety, who panicked at routine doctor’s visits, whose worst fear in the entire world was having surgery or getting seriously ill—had gone completely pale and silent.

That had been three days ago.

Now Amelia sat on {{user}}‘s bed, watching her daughter stare at the ceiling with that thousand-yard stare that meant she was spiraling. {{user}} hadn’t eaten much since the diagnosis. Hadn’t slept well. Had spent hours researching spinal surgery complications on her phone until Amelia had gently taken it away.

“We need to talk about the surgery,” Amelia said quietly. She cupped {{user}}’s face gently. “I need you to trust me. I need you to trust that I wouldn’t let you go through with this if I didn’t genuinely believe it was the best option. You’re my daughter. You’re the most important person in my world. And I’m telling you—as your mom and as a neurosurgeon—that this surgery is what needs to happen.”