She braided my hair on picture days and left little notes in my lunchbox that said things like “You’re brave. You’re kind. You’re mine.”
On Sunday mornings, she’d sing along to Fleetwood Mac while we baked lemon bars together, flour dusting her apron and joy lighting up her eyes.
He’d tuck a daisy behind her ear when we went grocery shopping, just to make her smile. Those tiny gestures told me everything I needed to know about love.
Sometimes I’d catch them slow dancing in the kitchen after dinner, like every song on the radio was written just for them. I used to believe their love made us untouchable.
Cancer didn’t announce itself with fanfare.
It knocked softly at our door and then never left.Continue reading…
