In the mid-’80s, when my mother was just 25, she found a lump in her breast. I was almost eight, and I remember how everything seemed to hang in the balance as we waited for her biopsy results. She filled those endless days with trips to the library, checking out every book she could find on breast cancer, and learning all she could. She came back from each visit with pages and pages of notes, arming herself with questions. She knew how to advocate for herself, too bad her doctor didn’t seem to think she needed it.

When her biopsy finally came back positive for cancer, her first question was, “What did the hormone test show? Is it fast- or slow-growing?” Her doctor looked at her, stunned, asking how she knew to ask that. She told him she’d spent all her time researching while waiting for her results. Then he dropped the ball: he hadn’t ordered those tests because “you’re too young to get breast cancer, and there’s no family history.” What he failed to mention is that those tests can only be done at the onset of the biopsy; once those slides are frozen, it’s too late.

Six months, six surgeries, and four different doctors, my mother was left with a botched reconstruction that only vaguely resembled a breast. She was 25. Each doctor just passed her along, leaving her with scars and a hollow apology.

While she spent those months in and out of surgeries and trying to heal, life at home grew darker. My stepfather’s abuse escalated, unchecked, because no one was around to catch him or keep me safe. With my mom focused on surviving and recovering, I was left to navigate a house that felt more dangerous every day.