The chime of the private elevator rings through the penthouse at seven o’clock sharp, cutting through the low hum of the music that Locke put on twenty minutes ago.
I’m standing by the kitchen island, smoothing down the front of my cream knit sweater. My hands are trembling slightly – not from nerves, but from the electric, overwhelming reality of what today brought us.
The e-mail from Dr. Mercer arrived at 2:14 PM, containing twelve pages of dense blood work, cellular panels, and on a separate page, the clear, beautiful, life-giving words:
Full and complete remission. No detectable malignancy.
The heavy doors slide open, and three people step into the foyer, looking like a tactical unit trying awkwardly to act natural.
Dad steps out first. As President, the man usually walks into e
