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I don’t want my son to remember me weak.

The pad of my thumb drifts over the words engraved in metal. Strong man.

I want to be strong for him. For them.

I sit back in my chair. “I don’t want treatment. I’ve slept on it, and I’ve made my decision. I want my family to remember me as I am.”

The doctor pulls in a deep, disappointed breath, but he nods, accepting my decision. Maybe even understanding it. “Have you discussed your diagnosis with your family?”

I feel my throat work around a swallow. “Not yet.”

His eyes soften. “You need support. And your family will need support.”

“I’ll tell them.” I will, just not yet. I want to live while I’m alive.

I’m just not strong enough to watch the shadow of death peer at me from the deep of their eyes as they watch me live.

The room erupts in cheers as Mabel’s strong breath snuffs the flame of four candles. She sits back on her knees on the kitchen table chair, smiling proudly as her tiara snags the October sun. My baby—my little girl—my princess is four today.

The moment is incredibly precious and incredibly sad. My soul knows this is the last birthday I will watch her celebrate. It’s the last birthday that her pretty green eyes will slide to find me in the crowd of faces who have come to celebrate her.

I wonder if I’ll make it to March, to Owen’s birthday. To Twelve.

October mornings are frosty, but the day is still seeing high single digits. We haven’t had snow yet. Faye says I’m lucky for that, because I haven’t yet strung the Christmas lights on the house.

Something jarred me awake this morning to find Faye already up and out of bed. Mornings are still the toughest part of my day, when the pain in my head is the worst. I keep it to myself now, however. No point in bringing the rest of the house down with me when it’s no longer a mystery of what I’ve got.

Now that I know, I know it’s a symptom of the cancer. To wake with these headaches—for them to steadily ease over the day.

I wish I’d acted sooner. Sought answers sooner.

I wish I wasn’t so ready to accept the excuse of sinus troubles…of a pinched nerve…

I wish I pushed.

Would my fate be different if I had?

The thought comes with a stabbing pain that has me seeking relief.

I keep my pills in my nightstand now, gobbling them all back before I even stand from the bed. Breakfast of champions.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I head out to hunt for my wife—and coffee.

I don’t find my wife, but I find a pot of coffee missing a cup. That’s when I hear the familiar hum of the garage door opening. Coffee in hand, curiosity peaked, I head that way.

I find her tugging a tote across the floor of the garage toward the driveway pad.

“What are you doing?”

She startles, eyes flying to the door that connects to the house. A sheepish smile spreads on her face as she stands, puffing out a breath that swirls white in the brisk air. “I’m getting the Christmas tote ready for you.”

I raise a brow. “For me?”

She nods, ponytail bobbing. Good lord, the woman’s put her hair up. She wasn’t readying anything for me.

“You weren’t going to wait for me, were you?”

Another sheepish look. This time, it’s the widening of her eyes. “No, no, I was. Of course, I was.”