“You’re Making Up Symptoms,” They Laughed—Until the Specialist’s Report Came Back.

packing boxes. I’d found an apartment closer to my medical team, with room for a home office so I could work remotely—my life, my schedule, my body’s limits respected.

My mother hovered in the doorway. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am. I need to do this for myself.”

She nodded slowly, the kind of nod that admitted she didn’t get to decide anymore. “We continue reading …