Then, two harrowing years before his death, doctors discovered the cancer—and everything changed.
I became the organizer, the one who researched treatments and managed appointments.
Daniel remained brave in front of the children, but at night he squeezed my hand and whispered, “I’m scared, Claire.”
“I know,” I told him. “But we’re not giving up.”
Even on his worst days, he would sit on the living room floor building Lego towers with the children. He would stop from time to time to catch his breath, careful not to attract attention.
I admired him. I trusted him. I thought I knew him perfectly.
Three weeks before I discovered the box, he died in our room at two in the morning. The only sound was the faint hum of the oxygen machine.
I pressed my forehead against his and whispered, “You can’t leave me.”
He smiled slightly. “You’ll get through this. You’re stronger than you think.”
I didn’t feel strong. I felt like the ground had disappeared from under my feet.
After the funeral, I forced the children to resume a normal life. I packed their lunches, signed the permits, and smiled when necessary.
At night, when the house was quiet, I would wander from room to room, touching Daniel’s things.
