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?"
"Don't die, Daddy."
"Do I have a choice?" he asked, and the boys perched on the bathroom counter, giggling as I shaved their dad's head.
***
Months dragged by. The trial and its heaviness nearly broke us. But then, one bright spring morning, my phone rang.
"It's Dr. Samson, Hanna. The latest results are all clear. Joshua is in remission."
I dropped to my knees. This was it.
"The latest results are all clear."
***
Now, two years later, our home is chaos, backpacks, soccer cleats, crayons everywhere.
Joshua tells the boys I'm the bravest person in the family.
I always answer the same way: "Being brave isn't staying quiet. It's telling the truth before it's too late."
For a long time, I thought Joshua wanted to give me a family so I wouldn't be alone.
In the end, the truth nearly broke us.
