Mum and I part ways at the airport security checkpoint.

She hugs me hard and says, "I'll text you when I land."

"Okay."

She knows something's wrong and leaves me with the same marching orders as before. Test my iron levels. Ask my doctor to print out the results. Read them to her over the phone. I promise her I will because I don't have it in me to say I all ready did. My iron's so low the doctor isn't sure the reading is accurate. I need an abdominal ultrasound. It will show anything suspicious or missing. Maybe nothing. Maybe something.

It feels like I'm marooned on the Moon. Everyone else is back on Earth living their own lives and I can only watch from across the void. My mum calls me every second night and I stare at the lab results tucked behind my copy of Neil Armstrong: A Life of Flight. This moment is billions of years in the making, but it's too big and I'm too small. Every time I think about broaching the subject is like exposing myself to vacuum. The air is sucked out of my lungs. I try to hold on to the last breath while moisture in my eyes and mouth boils off.