“You made me a mother without telling me I might be raising them alone,” I said. “That’s not love.”
He cried.
But I didn’t soften—not yet.
“I’m here for Matthew and William,” I said. “And because whatever time is left—it will be lived in truth.”
The next morning, I told him:
“We’re telling our families. No more secrets.”
He nodded. “Will you stay?”
“I’ll fight for you,” I said. “But you have to fight too.”
Telling our families was brutal.
His sister cried—then turned on him.
“You made her become a mother while planning your death?”
My mother spoke quietly, but her words cut deeper.
“You should have trusted your wife with her own life.”
Joshua didn’t defend himself.
Life became a blur—hospital visits, tantrums, exhaustion.
One night, I caught him recording a video.
“Hey, boys… if you’re watching this…”
I quietly closed the door.
Later, Matthew climbed into his lap.
“Don’t die, Daddy,” he whispered.
William pressed a toy truck into his hand. “So you can come back and play.”
That was when I finally broke.
