By morning, I forced myself to keep going.
We emptied our savings and borrowed money. We traveled to specialists in other cities, tried different medications, and eventually agreed to an experimental treatment that offered only a tiny chance.
I held onto that chance because it was all we had.
A year after the diagnosis, I sat beside Tom and held his hand as his breathing slowed.
He gave me one last weak smile.
Then he was gone.
After the funeral, I sat in our living room dressed in black, staring at stacks of bills covering the table.
Emily played near my feet, still too young to fully understand that her father was never coming home.
Her toy kitten lay beside her.
Looking at it reminded me of what someone had once called me.
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