Look at her, off she goes to ‘run errands,’ chuckled a neighbour, softly enough to seem like a whisper, but loud enough to be heard.

Look at her, off to work again, whispered a neighbour, low enough to sound like a breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Did you see the one Mrs. Smiths daughter is trying to be? She spends all day dressed like she stepped out of a glossy magazine dresses, high heels, the whole lot. She must have someone paying the bills for that

The gossip rolled down the landing like loose stones, striking, staining, uncaring of whose soul they might crush.

On the ground floor, the women in their housecoats and perpetually dusty slippers shuffled to the postbox just to catch a glimpse of the passerby. They leaned on the rail, arms crossed, eyes sharpened like knives.

Did you see her? Back on those heels again

Yeah those arent the kind of heels a woman lives on a wage for.

Leave it, we all know theres got to be a gentleman behind her. Thats how these young ones are now, theyve forgotten what modesty is”

And they laughed, shaking their heads as if that were sage wisdom.

Emily heard it. Once, twice, a dozen times. From a distance the words didnt even need to be spoken aloud; she saw them in the way they measured her shoes, her handbag, her wig, her smile.

The wig

The only luxury shed ever wanted to be free of.

Just a few months earlier Emilys life was measured in projects, meetings, and dreams. She was twentynine, working in a modest office she actually liked, dreaming of one day opening her own firm. It was a simple life, her own.

Then the phone rang.

Your test results arent good, we need to discuss them.

The wordcancerhit her like a boulder, shattering calm, plans, the future.

Within weeks her long hair, which shed always been proud of, began to fall in clumps down the sink. She gathered the strands in her hands and wept silently, as if pieces of herself were slipping away.

One morning she stared at the mirror and, with shaking hands, she shaved the remaining hair off so she wouldnt have to watch it disappear piece by piece. She cried, then stood up.

Her mother, eyes swollen with tears, bought her a wig.

Dont feel naked, love dont let it hurt so badly when you look at yourself”

Emily placed the wig on her head, fingers trembling. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She wasnt the woman shed been, but she wasnt just a patient either. She was a woman clinging desperately to normality.

And then she decided:

If she was going to fight this war, she would at least dress herself for every battle.

Not for the neighbours. Not for any mysterious him.

For herself.

She pulled dresses out of the wardrobe, the heels she reserved for special occasions, and resolved that every time she left the housewhether for treatment or a simple walkwould be a moment of dignity.

If my body is battling, my spirit wont stay in pyjamas, she whispered to herself.

That day, as the gossip floated down the stairwell, she descended slowly, steps sure. A simple black dress, heels, a handbag, the wig impeccably arranged, a subtle but present shade of lipsticka signal that she would not be knocked down.

When she passed the women, she felt their stares like needles in her neck.

Look at her, off to work again, giggled one, just soft enough to be a whisper but loud enough to cut.

Emily paused on a step. She could have stayed silent, as she had so many times before. She could have offered a false smile and kept moving. But the illness had taught her that life was too short to let injustice trample you.

She turned toward them, weary but resolute.

You know what youre right. I have a sponsor. In fact, I have several.

The women raised their eyebrows.

The chemo, sleepless nights they sponsor me. Theyve taught me that every day I can still put on mascara, slip into heels, and step out is a victory. Im not out there for anyone to see me; Im out there to see myself, so I dont lose sight of who I am.

A hush fell.

This wig, for example, she said, gently touching the hair, isnt a vanity. Its a shield. It lets me walk the street without the world seeing my illness before they see me.

She swallowed, her throat dry.

And yes maybe I look overdone for some tastes. But you know whats funny? When you spend hours in a hospital you start to cherish the small things: a lipstick, a dress, a shoe. They remind me that Im alive. Not just surviving, but living.

The neighbours lowered their eyes, as if the tiles beneath their feet suddenly mattered more than their gossip.

The oldest among them cleared her throat.

Mum we didnt know

I do, Emily replied simply. Thats why I say it. You never really know the story of the person you judge at first glance. Maybe next time you ask Are you alright? before Who are they with? Because sometimes were not walking with anyone were walking handinhand with death, trying to outwit it for one more day.

She smiled, not triumphantly, but with a gentle sadness.

Have a good day. Stay healthy. I truly wish that for you.

She continued down the stairs, each footfall sounding like dignity, not defiance.

Reaching the front of the block, she lifted her chin. The air felt cooler, cleaner. She opened her phone. A message from her doctor: Todays tests look a bit better. Well keep going.

A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips.

She didnt know what tomorrow would bring, in a month or a year. All she knew was that as long as she could step out the door with grace, she was still fighting.

Perhaps one day the neighbours would understand that not every polished woman is being kept up by a lover; some are sustained by their own courage.

Until then, Emily chose to wear her wig, dresses, and heels like an invisible crown not of royalty, but of survival.

The next time you feel like pointing a finger, place your hand over your heart and ask: if this were my story, would I want to be judged this way?