I remember the way Deborah’s laughter used to fill a room, long before we learned the word “incurable.” At 35, when she heard “stage 4 bowel cancer,” she didn’t crumble; she went to war. She fought through surgeries, treatments, and terrifying nights, clinging fiercely to every birthday, every school concert, every ordinary moment with Hugo and Eloise. I watched her body weaken while her will refused to bend.
In the end, as I held her hand, I realized love can exist beside relief. Letting her go did not mean I wanted her gone; it meant I could no longer bear to see her suffer. Now I carry her in the quiet tasks of caring for her children, in the stories we tell about their brilliantly stubborn mother, and in the knowledge that I was there for her first breath—and her last.
