He started crying again.
***
The next morning, I paced the kitchen, phone in hand. "We have to tell our families," I told my husband. "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 worse than either of us expected. Joshua's sister cried, then turned on him.
"You made her become a mother while planning your death?" she said. "What is wrong with you?"
My mother was quieter, which somehow hurt more. "You should have trusted your wife with her own life," she told him.
Joshua sat there and took it. For once, he didn't defend himself.
"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."
