These three years destroyed all of us. We rebuilt ourselves, only for it to fall apart again. It’s an endless journey—one that ends someday.
After her surgery, she started chemotherapy.
Her doctor told her she had five years left at most—no more.
Of course, she went against it. She said he couldn’t say such a thing and got angry with him.
“I’ll prove you wrong!” she declared. That was so like her.
She’s always hated doctors and hospitals with a passion. She thinks they’re useless and good for nothing. But she tried—and failed. And tried again—and failed.
She did it for us. She wanted us to be happy, not broken.
Then she said, “Only one chemo. No more.”
She made us promise not to ask her to do it again.
I knew I’d break that promise before I even made it. But I promised her anyway—I swore I wouldn’t put her through that pain again.
And yet, I did.