So here’s the thing: telling your kids you have breast cancer is right up there with “explaining algebra” and “teaching someone how to parallel park” on the list of impossible parenting tasks. Only this time, the stakes feel way higher.
Matt and I told the kids in the kitchen booth—the place where life happens in our house. It’s where we’ve had serious talks, and silly talks, played endless rounds of board games, eaten dinners both fancy and frozen, and stacked up years of family memories. And now, hearing that their mom has cancer will be another booth memory stamped into the wood grain of those benches.
Jase, Henley, and Sadie are twelve. Old enough to know things. Old enough to Google things (terrifying). Old enough to remember that my mom—their grandma they never got to meet—died of breast cancer. Which means the second those words left my mouth—“Mom has cancer”—I could practically see the cartoon thought bubbles appear over their heads: Is she going to die too?
And then the booth got heavy. The kind of heavy that only tweens can make heavier, with their big worried eyes and the silence that lingers longer than you want it to.
Until, of course, Sadie—my resident drama queen—after bawling, broke the silence by asking:
“So…are you getting bigger boobs?”
Of all the questions in the world, that was the one she chose. And I laughed. Hard. Because how do you not? Leave it to a tween to bring us back down to earth. Lifetime movie moment over. Booth memory made. Welcome back to reality.
The Ghost in the Room
Here’s what I know: my kids aren’t just processing my diagnosis—they’re also haunted by a story they’ve only ever heard. My mom’s story. Their grandma’s story. She died from this, long before they were born, and whether they’ve admitted it or not, that shadow lives in the corners of their understanding.
So now, I’m not only convincing myself that I’m going to be fine—I’m convincing them. And let me tell you, convincing three tweens of anything is already a feat. Convincing them I’m going to survive what killed the grandma they never knew? Herculean.
The Tween Factor
Here’s what I imagine is swirling inside their brains (if I know them at all):
- Jase: What’s the survival rate? I should Google statistics. Wait, is Mom Googling? Who’s Googling?
- Henley: How do I turn this into a TikTok trend without making Mom mad?
- Sadie: Does this mean I get to shop for new clothes if Mom gets new boobs?
And then, of course, there’s the constant middle school backdrop of hormones, homework, sports, and who-sat-by-who-at-lunch, all now colliding with the fact that Mom has cancer.
So How Do I Convince Them?
I can’t promise them perfection. I can’t promise them a life without pain or fear. But I can promise them this:
- I’ll fight with everything I’ve got.
- I’ll laugh whenever I can (even at boob jokes).
- I’ll be honest—even when it’s messy.
- And I’ll remind them that my story is not my mom’s story.
I can already hear myself repeating it over and over: I’m going to be fine. This is not Grandma’s cancer. This is mine. And I’m going to be just fine.
And maybe that’s how it works—not convincing them in one big dramatic speech, but in a hundred small reassurances. In the way I keep showing up. In the way we still have tacos on Tuesdays and complain about math homework and argue over whose turn it is to walk the dog.
The Punchline
Cancer is scary, yes. But life with tweens means there’s always a punchline. And apparently, in our family, the punchline is boobs.
So here’s what I hope they remember years from now: not just that their mom had cancer, but that their mom had cancer and still laughed with them, still parented them, and still answered ridiculous questions about free boob upgrades at the kitchen booth.
Because maybe that’s how you convince your kids you’ll be fine: you keep living. And you keep laughing.
Fry, Party of Five 