I stared at him both in disbelief and yet charmed by his carefree laughter.
He set down his coffee and pulled me onto his lap. “You’re wearing my shirt like you said.”
His hands settled on my waist, thumbs tracing slow circles. “Though I notice you’re wearing pants, which directly contradicts last night’s letter.”
“Well, it was in writing only,” I said, throwing his words back at him. “Besides, decency is still a thing, you know.”
“We’re on a private beach. The only person who can see you is me.” His mouth curved. “And I’m very pro-making it real rather than it just being in writing.”
He kissed me and I tasted coffee and salt air and the promise of more mornings like this one.
“I really do love you,” He murmured against my lips.
“I know.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You put it in writing. It’s legally binding.”
“I don’t know how to be more legally binding than that; we’remarried,” he said as I laughed out loud.
We fell into routine over the following days. Mornings on the beach collecting shells while Michael took pictures of me pretending I wasn’t posing.
Afternoons with him reading my favorite books to me. Evenings writing letters back and forth, leaving them like treasure for each other to find.
I took pictures constantly—Michael cooking breakfast with absolute devotion, I’d even caught him watching cooking videos quite a few times. Late evenings we walked the beach, the sunset painting everything gold, our hands intertwined with my wedding ring catching the light.
My parents visited after two weeks, and instead of bringing worry and fear, they brought normalcy. Mom didn’t hover. Dad made terrible jokes about his crab legs being bigger than everyone else’s. We played cards and ate too much seafood and laughed until our sides hurt.
I took a photo of all of us crowded around the deck table, cards scattered everywhere. Dad was making a ridiculous face. Mom was caught mid-laugh. Jack had his arm around me and we both looked happy in a way that felt frozen.
This was what mattered. Not hospitals. Not fear. Not the countdown I tried not to think about. This. Us. Being a family who loved each other and knew how to find joy even when everything was terrible.
But the good moments didn’t last long.
Three weeks into our stay, I woke with a headache so sharp the room spun instantly.
It was one of the episodes—but worse. Sharper. Meaner. Like something had broken inside my skull.
“Michael.” My voice came out thin and reedy.
He was awake immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“My head.”
He had me in the car within minutes, taking us to the hospital where the doctors
did scans while Michael paced outside the room like a caged animal.
By the next day the pain had dulled, and we sat in Dr. Rivera’s office, his face looking worried and professional in equal measure.
He stared at me and his expression changed, confusion giving way to something that looked almost like hope.
“The inflammation around the tumor has decreased significantly,” he said slowly, as if afraid the words might vanish if he said them too fast. Like he was trying to make sure hewasn’t misreading the scans. “I’d never seen something like this before, I already contacted Dr. Matthews. She’s a neurosurgeon who’s successfully removed tumors of this size before. You need to see her immediately.”
So, naturally, we did.
Dr. Matthews was younger than Dr. Rivera, with sharp eyes and a direct manner that suggested she didn’t waste time on false hope but also didn’t sugarcoat reality.
She spread my scans across her desk and pointed to the tumor. “Well, Dr. Rivera was right. The inflammationhasdecreased substantially. That’s created a window we didn’t have before.”
Michael and I exchanged looks, and I felt something I thought I had forgotten how to feel.
