My wife, Jenna, died two years ago.
Cancer took her quickly and cruelly.
One moment we were debating whether the kitchen cabinets should be white or blue. Six months later, I was standing beside a hospital bed at two in the morning, holding her hand while machines beeped around us, praying for more time that never came.
After the funeral, every corner of our home reminded me of her—her laughter, the way she hummed softly while cooking.
But I couldn’t completely fall apart.
Because there was Melissa.
She was four years old when Jenna passed away. By the time she turned six, she had grown into a child who treated everyone with kindness. Some days she reminds me so much of her mom that it tightens something deep inside my chest.
Since Jenna died, it has been just the two of us.
I work in HVAC repair—heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. Most months it pays the bills, though just barely. Some weeks I work double shifts while trying not to think about the growing stack of envelopes waiting on the kitchen table.
Pay one bill and another shows up.
Money has been tight.
But Melissa never complains.
One afternoon she burst through the front door after school, her backpack bouncing behind her.
“Daddy!” she shouted. “Guess what!”
I had just returned from work and was still taking off my boots.
“What’s up?”
“Kindergarten graduation is next Friday! We have to dress fancy!” she said excitedly. Then her voice softened. “Everyone’s getting new dresses.”
Leave a Comment