“Why are you keeping these?” I whispered.
Tears spilled down his cheeks. “Daddy said I’d need them… to remember you when you’re gone.”
The words hit like a blow. “Gone? Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”
“But Daddy said you’re sick,” he murmured. “He told a man on the phone you might not get better.”
Shaking, I hugged him tightly. Once he calmed, I marched back to Caleb.
“Why does Oliver think I’m dying?” I demanded.
Caleb paled. “He wasn’t supposed to hear that.”
“What are you hiding?”
Reluctantly, he handed me a crumpled paper. My eyes scanned the words: Oncology referral. Further testing recommended. Malignant indicators.
“You knew,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to protect you,” he said, voice shaking. “I thought I could handle it until we knew for sure.”
“You didn’t protect me,” I said quietly. “You lied to me—and terrified our son.”
That night, I stood in front of the mirror with scissors in hand. The first snip was shaky, but each cut felt like a step toward reclaiming my strength. When I emerged, Caleb looked at me with tear-streaked eyes.
“You look strong,” he said softly.
“I am,” I replied.
Later, Oliver and I sat with the shoebox. I smiled as he placed a superhero drawing inside. “This box isn’t just for sad things. We’ll fill it with happy memories, too.”
Tomorrow, I’d make that oncology appointment myself. Whatever the outcome, I’d fight—for my life and for my family.