Before the diagnosis, our life had been beautifully ordinary.
Saturday mornings meant pancakes and cartoons. Daniel always flipped the pancakes too soon.
“Dad, you don’t wait long enough,” Caleb would laugh.
Daniel would grin. “Patience is overrated.”
I used to roll my eyes, but secretly I loved that steadiness in him. He paid the bills on time, fixed cabinet doors without being asked, and never forgot a birthday. He was an incredible husband and father.
For illustrative purposes only
Then, two painfully long years before his death, the doctor said the word cancer—and everything shifted.
I became the scheduler, the researcher, the one making lists and asking questions. Daniel stayed calm for the kids. But at night, when the house was quiet, he would grip my hand and whisper, “I’m scared, Claire.”
“I know,” I would tell him. “But we’re not giving up.”
