The subway rattled along, and I gripped the seat beneath me, grateful for the small relief it gave my aching body. Chemotherapy had left me weak, and even sitting felt like a victory. My hood covered my thinning hair, shielding me from curious stares.
Then an older woman approached, a young boy at her side. He claimed an empty seat while she turned to me, her tone demanding.
“Would you mind standing? I need to sit,” she said, as if it were a given.
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I can’t. Maybe your grandson could give you his seat?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t? You’re young! Have some respect!” Her voice rose, drawing attention. “Unbelievable! My grandson is just a child—what’s your excuse?”
Whispers spread. I felt the weight of strangers’ disapproval.
Finally, I took a deep breath and lowered my hood. My bald head told the story I didn’t have the energy to explain.
“I have cancer,” I said quietly. “I just finished treatment. I can’t stand.”
The woman fell silent. The air in the car shifted—suddenly, the judgmental glances turned to pity, even guilt.
I covered my head again, my hands shaking. In that moment, surrounded by people, I’d never felt more alone.
Was I wrong? I believe in respecting elders, but that day, I needed compassion too.
