PART 1
Simon died while I was six months pregnant, leaving me with two children to think about and more questions than I expected. Then a stranger appeared with something he had hidden from me.
I was thirty-five and six months pregnant with our second daughter. Our four-year-old, Sadie, still believed Daddy was going to get better because that was what grown-ups did. For eight months, my life had been lists consisting of medication times, oncology appointments, insurance calls, bills, Sadie’s preschool schedule, and my prenatal appointments.
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Simon watched me sorting pills at the kitchen table. “You know you don’t have to control every second of the day, right?”
“I am six months pregnant, Sadie is four, and my husband has cancer,” I answered softly, placing another pill into the organizer. “Which part should I stop controlling?”
