I just flew in to Chicago to see my Mom. She turned 80 on Friday. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and was given five years to live. Now my Dad is telling me, “I hope you have a suit and tie back in New York. You’re gonna have to come back wearing it pretty soon.”

From her first chemo treatment on, I had not seen Mom’s real hair. I’d only seen her in wigs: sometimes a red one, sometimes brown, sometimes a silver-grey, which was a bold choice for a woman who had always coloured her hair, never letting a single root show, right up to the day of her diagnosis.