First came the endless doctor appointments, then the colorful scarves to cover her thinning hair. At 10, I’d learned so many medical terms that no child deserves to know.
On some days, Mom was still herself. Her eyes would sparkle when she told jokes, and she’d laugh at Dad’s terrible puns.
Dad held her hand during every scan and learned to tie her scarves just the way she liked them. His tenderness became the glue holding us together.
He’d whisper, “We’ll find our way through this, Nora,” even when the doctor’s expression told us everything we didn’t want to hear.
I can never forget the warm October afternoon when Mom asked me to sit beside her bed and opened a small velvet box. Something in her eyes told me it was a moment meant to last forever.
Inside lay a delicate silver chain with a tiny oval locket, smooth around the edges and etched with a faint forget-me-not flower.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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