We were governed by numbers. The relentless measurements of fasting glucose, post-meal spikes, and A1C levels that arrived every three months felt like a report card we never wanted. She would joke that her fingers had more holes than Swiss cheese. I found it funny at first, but as her laughter faded, so did my own.

There was a certain cadence to our lives. Wake up, prick a finger, eat, inject. Then we waited, watched, and clung to hope. It became a cycle we knew all too well.

I learned to count carbohydrates before I learned how to cook. I grasped the difference between a hypo and a hyper far quicker than I learned how to remedy either condition. She taught me to recognize the signs: shaky hands, cold sweat, vacant stares. Yet, there were still nights when those warnings slipped past my notice.

It wasn’t the injections that exhausted her; it was the relentless nature of it all. The endless cycle made even a slice of birthday cake feel like a loaded weapon.

After family dinners, she would retreat to the bathroom, tears flowing as she whispered apologies to herself as if she had broken a sacred pact. But she hadn’t. She was just weary of doing everything right yet still feeling unsafe in her own body.

We did everything correctly. We counted and we planned. Yet some numbers don’t provide a warning…they arrive suddenly, like an unexpected verdict.