At first, we lied to ourselves.
We blamed exhaustion. Stress. Sleepless nights with a newborn.
Anything that let us pretend nothing was wrong.
But the truth was brutal and fast.
The kind of illness that doesn’t slow down or wait for hope.
Within a year, she was gone.
I still remember holding her hand in the hospital room, feeling how weak it had become.
She squeezed my fingers, as if trying to leave part of herself behind.
I promised her I’d take care of the kids.
I promised I’d survive.
Neither of us was sure how.
Since then, it’s just been us.
Aaron is nine, serious and careful, carrying more weight than a child should.
Clara is seven, emotional and imaginative, always watching the world closely.
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