Tonight is a good night for crayons.

My mom called.

I was in the middle of doing yoga, and a little annoyed to be interrupted.

But it's my mom.

So I can't ignore it.

She had the "something's wrong" voice.

I knew it immediately.

I don't think she's aware of it.

She was all, "How're you? Deal with any mean doggies today?"

And I'm all, "What's up?"

But she's still playing it cool and chatty.

Then she tells me she's going to tell me what's going on.

I'm thinking, "Finally!"

Apparently my grandmother is having a hysterectomy.

In a week.

It's probably ovarian cancer.

Which sucks.

She didn't want to tell us.

So she waited until Thanksgiving.

She's know for a while.

She had to have known for a while.

And Madre talked to my uncle.

Who told her that she'd also had a biopsy on a lump in her breast.

About 10 years ago.

Apparently that one was fine.

My mom says this to me flippantly.

As if to say, "I just don't understand her."

But nothing more.

And I flip out.

Because for 24.75 years, I've believed we were a cancer-free family.

And come to find out, we're not.

My mom isn't a blood relative.

She wouldn't be concerned by this.

Her family is clean.

But mine apparently isn't.

I'm almost 25.

I need to know these things.

Especially given my genes.

I may have the milkman's hair color.

But I'm definitely my dad's daughter.

I'm built exactly like my grandmother.

His mother.

The one with the probably-cancer.

But she kept all this from us.

From me.

And I'm not sure what's worse.

That she's sick.

Or that I'm more upset by the fact that didn't tell us.

She didn't tell me.

I'm pretty sure that makes me a horrible human being.