I pulled my hood back on to hide my hair — thin and burned from a recent cycle of chemotherapy. The subway was crowded, but I managed to sit near the door. I felt exhausted, my body aching, every breath an effort.

Next to me, a woman of about sixty got off with a little boy of around six. He immediately took the free seat, and the woman, with a heavy sigh, said to me:
— “Young lady, give me your seat, please. I can’t stand very well.”

I barely lifted my head, my strength was leaving me.

When she yelled at me because I didn’t stand up, here’s what I had to do:

— “Sorry, I can’t,” I murmured, lowering my eyes. “Let your grandson sit instead.”

She frowned and raised her voice:
— “What do you mean you can’t? You’re young! Where is your respect? My grandson is a child, and you… this is outrageous! Look at her!”

Around us, people began to mutter.

Then I made my decision, and what I did froze the woman’s gaze — then, embarrassed, she apologized before getting off at her stop.

I slowly lowered my hood, revealing my shaved head, and with bitterness in my voice, I said:
— “I have cancer. I just finished chemotherapy. That’s why I can’t stand up. I don’t ask for your compassion, just don’t yell at me.”

The woman froze. A silence of several seconds followed.

Some people then looked at me differently — no longer with judgment, but with pity, and perhaps even with respect.

I pulled my hood back on, trying to shield myself from their stares.

In that subway — among indifferent faces — I felt both very alone and incredibly strong. Do you think I was right? I was really in pain, but I respect my elders.