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"If anything happens to me, look after your dad," mum said.

The kind of sentence that lodges deep in your chest.

As a kid, I had intrusive thoughts about my family dying. Dad's car wrapped around a tree on the night drive home from work. Mum tripping over her hoarding piles. One of my brothers getting kidnapped at school.

The thoughts hit like premonitions; my brain trying to warn me.

Watch: The grief that comes with life transitions. Post continues below.

I wasn't religious, but every night I still prayed for them to live forever. Just in case there was a suggestion box somewhere. I'd lie in bed, fingers digging into sheets, and run through their names: Mum. Dad. My two brothers.

The universe might mishear if I rushed. Sometimes I'd repeat the list twice to be safe. Only after the final name left my lips did I let sleep take me.

If I forgot one, I'd jolt awake and start the whole list again.

Turns out, my brain wasn't being dramatic. My fear arrived early.

Now, I hear the words before Mum finishes speaking. Liver cancer. The third time. Scans had shown the tumour for years. Doctors called it nothing. We always got second opinions on treatment plans.

An "all clear" wasn't doubted.

Mum was first diagnosed in 2018, at 66.

"We won't be home tomorrow. I have an appointment." She opened the fridge.

My mouth parted. Thoughts came too fast to hold. "What do you mean?"

"Liver cancer." She didn't pause. "I was thinking ginger chicken tonight."

I stared at the kitchen tiles. Counted the grout lines. Blinked hard. For one childish moment, I believed I could tug the cancer out of her body and into mine. I was younger, stronger.

My brothers asked questions, talked treatment, made plans.

I nodded like a daughter who could handle the news. Then I slipped out of the room before my breathing gave me away.

The bathroom door clicked shut. Cold tiles under me. Forehead pressed against my knees.

So many nights, saying her name in the dark, bargaining with nothing.

I stayed there until I could paint a calm face back on and walk back in.

A year earlier, I got a Maltese Shih Tzu named Groot. Mum had never been a dog person. She kept her distance when I visited.

But chemo changed her.

She walked him around the block. For the first time in 25 years, she learnt her neighbours' names.

She chatted and laughed while Groot sniffed something invisible. I hadn't realised how much I'd needed to see my mum, lighter and more open. She began showing everyone photos of him: "That's my grandson."

With her new sociability, she joined tai chi on Thursdays and Qigong on Sundays.

She moved with the group in the park, determined to stay.

Six months later, the doctors told us the tumour was gone.

For a while, we let ourselves believe our small white fluffy dictator had given her strength when she needed it most.

Then another tumour appeared.

The surgeon removed the growth, but cancer remained. They recommended a liver transplant.

Immunosuppressants for life.

More vulnerable to infections, high blood pressure, diabetes, kidney problems.

A real choose-your-own-adventure.

Mum sought a second opinion from Hong Kong. He believed the doctor had not cut deep enough. No transplant needed. Just… cut deeper. Her doctor reviewed the Hong Kong surgeon's notes and called a team meeting.

They agreed, once someone else said it.

The operation was a success.

Mum had scans every three months for two years. The doctor dropped them to every six months. For the next four years, every result came back with blue skies.

Until April 2026.

"I have two tumours below my liver," mum said, like she was reminding me to save chip packets for her tai chi friend.

"So, they're benign?" I was already redecorating. "Just removing them to be safe?"

"No. Liver cancer, third time."

A cancer seed had fallen during the original surgery. One tumour had grown to 11 centimetres. The mass had appeared on earlier scans, but we were told it wasn't concerning.

As liver cancer experts, they never considered a seed might take a little holiday downstairs. These tumours don't appear overnight. Helpful.

I started mentally listing everyone I loved. She went from completely fine to a tennis ball tumour situation.

"Don't do your weird anxious spiral thing," she said.

Mum started a clinical trial.

The doctors called the experimental drug the best path forward. She chased second opinions overseas.

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When a parent gets sick, you start memorising them.

The silver threads spreading through her dark hair when she takes longer between dyes. Her steps slowing on the garden path.

She still sees me as her baby. I still see her as indestructible. She keeps my bedroom the same.

I've started cooking the family weekend dinners. Neither of us is saying what that means.

When I was young, she stood at the school gate during every recess. A small, steady figure in her pink coat, waiting so I wouldn't be alone in the world.

Now I linger at her front door before I leave.

I try to picture her at my age. The image doesn't form. In my mind, she was always older than me. I had never imagined her in the mirror, searching for the same reassurance I once needed from her.

My pharmacist brother is there for every appointment now. He reads each report and pores over the trial data. We trusted the experts.

"Clear" was a full sentence. But doctors are human. Things get missed.

They can be rushed or lean optimistic. The system is built for efficiency. We now ask the awkward questions and compare the scans side by side: "Show me exactly where you're looking and what you might be missing."

And if anything happens to her, I will look after dad, just like she asked.

I'm not ready for that request to become real.

When I leave her house, she waits there in her slippers until my taillights disappear around the corner. I slow the car, glancing back in the rear-view mirror, willing her to stay visible a few seconds longer.

Not yet.

Find out more about Liv, Instagram @liv_au or her website www.livarnold.com

Feature Image: Supplied.