The husband who made soup.
The husband who shoved my head over a trash can.
The man who held me after diagnosis.
The man who forged my signature.
They were the same person.
That was harder.
People can love you and still hurt you.
They can care about you and still feel entitled to control you.
Recognizing one does not cancel the other.
My scans continued.
One year.
Then eighteen months.
No evidence of recurrence.
I never used the phrase “cancer-free” casually because my oncologist was more precise.
But I was well.
Getting stronger.
I went back to work part-time.
I was a public library administrator.
Not glamorous.
I loved it.
The first day back, my coworkers decorated my office.
I told them it looked like a funeral home.
They removed half the flowers.
I laughed until my abdomen hurt.
Normal pain.
Not surgical pain.
Not fear.
Just laughing too hard.
