Jack had been diagnosed with terminal can*cer in the spring, on an ordinary Thursday, in a small white room that smelled of disinfectant and bad news.
The months that followed were the hardest of my life.
We fought for him every way two ordinary people know how to fight.
We spent all the money we had, which was never much to begin with.
I sold the little jewelry I owned — my mother’s thin gold chain, the earrings Jack gave me when Lily was born.
I took out a loan against the house.
I learned the names of medications I never wanted to know and the exact sound the chemo pump made at three in the morning.
And none of it was enough.
Jack di*ed on a Sunday, holding my hand, without ever getting to meet his second child.
Jack and I had been together since we were sixteen years old.
