The subway car was packed, but I managed to find a seat near the door. Every movement hurt—my body ached from another round of chemotherapy, and my bleached, thinning hair was hidden under a hood. I just needed to sit, even if only for a few stops.
Then I noticed them—a woman in her sixties and a young boy, maybe six years old, standing nearby. The boy quickly took an empty seat, while the woman turned to me with an impatient sigh.
“Excuse me, young lady,” she said sharply. “Would you mind giving me your seat? I have trouble standing.”
I lifted my head slightly, too exhausted to speak loudly. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t. Maybe your grandson could let you sit instead?”
Her face twisted in disapproval. “You can’t? What do you mean? You’re young—where’s your respect?” Her voice grew louder, drawing glances from nearby passengers. “This is ridiculous! My boy is just a child, and you—look at her behavior!”
Murmurs spread through the car. Some people nodded along with her, casting judgmental looks my way.
Finally, with a quiet bitterness, I reached up and pulled back my hood, revealing my bald head.
“I have cancer,” I said, my voice steady. “I just finished chemo. That’s why I can’t stand. You don’t have to understand, but you don’t get to yell at me, either.”
The woman froze. The subway car fell silent.
The stares around me shifted—no longer accusatory, but filled with sympathy, even shame. I tugged my hood back up, suddenly feeling both strong and completely alone in that crowded train full of strangers.
Did I do the right thing? I respect my elders, but that day, I was the one who needed kindness.
