“Will you stay?”
That afternoon, we sat at the table with paperwork spread everywhere, medical forms, trial consents, and sticky notes. Joshua rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t want the boys to see me like this.”
I squeezed his hand. “They’d rather have you sick and here than gone.”
He looked away, but signed the last form.
***
Every day after blurred into hospital commutes, spilled apple juice, temper tantrums, and Joshua’s body shrinking inside his old hoodies. One night, I caught him recording a video for the boys. He didn’t see me.
“Hey, boys. If you’re watching this, and I’m not there… just remember, I loved you both from the moment I saw you.”
He looked away.
I closed the door quietly. Later, Matthew crawled into Joshua’s lap. “Don’t die, Daddy,” he whispered, like he was asking for one more bedtime story.
William climbed up beside him and pressed his toy truck into Joshua’s hand. “So you can come back and play,” he said.
I turned away then, because it was the first time since I’d overheard that phone call that I let myself cry for all of us.
Some nights I cried in the shower, the water hiding the sound. Other days I’d snap, slamming a cupboard, then apologize as Joshua pulled me close, both of us shaking.
When his hair started to fall out, I pulled out the clippers. “Ready?”
