As we look back on things, what haunts us the most is not the struggle. Not the disease. The fact that the years pass and we say, “Chika would have been eight” or “Chika would have been nine,” or, one day, “Chika would be in college now, drinking coffee.” It’s not the time she spent battling we lament. It’s the growing up she missed. The time she didn’t get. The future she never saw. That still seems so unfair.