A dying, confused wife was financially simpler.
He did not cause my cancer.
He did not try to kill me.
I want to be precise about that.
What he did was exploit uncertainty.
He turned fear into authority.
He treated my recovery as a window during which he could gain control over decisions I had refused while healthy.
That was enough.
Meanwhile, I continued recovering.
My next scans showed no immediate evidence of disease.
I would need monitoring.
More appointments.
The future was not guaranteed.
It never is.
But I began walking every morning.
First to Laura’s mailbox.
Then around the block.
Then a mile.
Food got easier.
My hair, which had thinned from stress and treatment, began filling in again.
I stopped sleeping with my phone beneath my pillow.
And one afternoon, Rachel visited me at Laura’s house just because she wanted to.
No uniform.
No medical bag.
