Prologue
Angelo
How do you say goodbye to the person you thought you had a lifetime to love?
“I’m so tired,” Marissa whispers so softly I barely hear her.
I squeeze her hand gently, trying not to hurt her. “It’s okay, baby. Rest.” But the last thing I want is for her to close her eyes. Every moment that ticks by is one I can’t get back, and I know the end is near.
I never thought I’d be here, sitting beside my wife’s bed, speaking our final words a week before her thirtieth birthday.
“I won’t leave you.” I brush the hair away from her face as she closes her eyes.
The day the doctor said Marissa had stage four cancer, the world came crashing down around us. I knew the horrors. The reality of what would happen. I understood her chances of survival were infinitely small, but still, I hoped she’d defy the odds.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the months of treatment or these last few hours I’ve sat with her, watching her light slowly fade.
My family has been supportive, doting on Marissa and me for months. They wanted us to focus only on fighting the cancer that was growing out of control inside her. They took care of everything else, including the kids.
Jesus.
The kids.
Every time I look at their tiny, innocent faces and realize all the things Marissa will miss, they’ll miss, I’m completely and utterly wrecked.
The birthdays. The boo-boos only Mommy can kiss and make better. The first loves and broken hearts. The graduations. The weddings. All the milestones, big and small—Marissa won’t be there for any of them. I will have to be father and mother, strength and comfort, guiding my children without her by my side. It terrifies me.
I’m not sure I can do it. Right now, I can barely take care of myself. I’m too busy worrying about her and about the future for the little people we brought into this world, vowing to raise them together. Never for a minute did I think one of us wouldn’t be around to see them grow into adults.
I try to hold back the tears, vowing to stay strong for my wife in her final hours as she battles through the pain while she tries to comfort us in our grief. She’s always been worried about everyone except herself. While the cancer ravaged her body, she wanted the children to know they were loved and that even when she wasn’t there to kiss their soft cheeks, she would be watching over them, loving them from afar.
She’s always been selfless. That’s the thing that drew me to my wife. Her ability to love and give unconditionally without expecting anything in return. I love her with every ounce of my being and have done everything in my power to be the best husband possible—the one she deserves. But no matter how hard I love her, I can’t stop death from taking her away from me…from us.
For months, I’ve mourned her like she’s already gone. That’s the bitch about cancer. Mourning isn’t saved for after the person dies. The process of grieving starts the moment you hear the diagnosis.
Even if there’s a glimmer of hope and you want to believe they’ll get better, there’s always a part of your heart and mind that knows the final outcome and lives in constant fear.
I’ve spent months with an ache so deep in my chest, my heart feels like it’s broken into a million pieces, scratching at my insides as my soul slowly dies along with my wife.
I know as Marissa’s spirit drifts away, my ability to love goes with her. When I said the words “until death do us part,” I never expected her to go first, and certainly not so soon. I thought we had decades. A lifetime of memories to build together, children to raise, and love to share with one another. I thought we’d grow old together, dying of weak bodies well into our nineties, but never now.
Never so young.
I haven’t left Marissa’s hospice room in a week except for a few hours to shower, change clothes, and check on the kids.
The day she stopped getting out of bed was the day I set everything else aside to be with her. I knew the kids needed me, but I had a lifetime to be with them and only days or hours to spend with the greatest love I’d ever known.
“I’ll give you two some privacy.” My mother places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
I almost forgot she was in the room. She’s been so quiet and unlike herself.
I lean over the bed, staring down at the bracelet on Marissa’s wrist, trying to hide my tears.
“I’ll be right outside.” Ma stands at my side near the bed.
I lift my gaze to Marissa, wiping away the tears before she can see them. “Thanks, Ma.” My voice cracks on the last word.
I can’t keep my shit together anymore. For months, I’ve been able to remain strong, only letting myself fall apart in private. But now, as the minutes pass too quickly, I’m unable to control the agony from seeping out.
