For eight months, my life had been lists.
Medication times.
Oncology appointments.
Insurance calls. Bills.
Lucy’s preschool schedule.
My prenatal appointments.
One day, Jack watched me sorting pills at the kitchen table.
“You know you don’t have to control every second of the day, right?”
“I’m pregnant, Lucy is four, and my husband has cancer. Which part should I stop controlling?”
“Maybe start with me.”
“You’re the least trustworthy one.”
“We’ve been together since high school.”
“Exactly. I have evidence.”
He smiled tiredly.
“You’re terrifying.”
“Good. Cancer should be terrified of me.”
He laughed, then coughed until he had to grip the table.
That was us.
I organized. Jack joked.
Neither of us said the obvious thing.
During his last few months, Jack started disappearing.
“Where were you?”
“Out.”
“For three hours?”
“I needed air.”
“You can barely walk through Target.”
“I’m fine.”
