I stitched my daughter’s graduation dress from the last precious belongings my late wife had left behind.

When a wealthy mother laughed at us in front of the entire gym, she had no idea the moment was about to turn against her in a way nobody expected.

Cancer took her quickly and mercilessly.

One moment we were debating whether the kitchen cabinets should be painted white or blue. Just six months later, I was sitting beside a hospital bed at two in the morning, listening to the steady beep of medical machines while holding her hand and hoping for more time that never came.

After she died, every corner of the house reminded me of her—the way she laughed, the quiet humming she did while cooking dinner.

But I couldn’t completely break down.

Because I still had Melissa.