And every night, Tom came home.
Then Emily was born.
The first time I held her, I cried.
Tom stood beside the hospital bed, staring at our daughter as though someone had handed him the most valuable thing on earth.
“She has your eyes,” he whispered.
“No, she has yours.”
“She definitely has yours.”
“You’re already lying to her.”
He laughed.
That night, while Emily slept between us in the hospital bassinet, I looked at Tom.
“It feels like I’m dreaming,” I said.
He turned toward me.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never had anything that felt permanent.”
Tom took my hand.
“Then don’t be afraid.”
I smiled.
“One wrong move and I’ll wake up without you.”
Tom squeezed my fingers.
“You won’t.”
A month later, he was diagnosed with cancer.
The doctor sat across from us with his hands folded.
He had already explained the tests.
He had already explained the scans.