She gasped—actually gasped, like someone had hit her. “Oh my god. Mom, what? What kind? How bad?”
“Pancreatic. Stage three.”
I heard her start to cry. “Oh my god. Oh my god. What do we do?”
“There’s a meeting with the oncologist next Thursday to discuss treatment options. Can you come next Thursday?”
She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her flipping through something. A calendar, maybe.
“Let me check my schedule. I have parent-teacher conferences Monday through Wednesday, and Patrick’s mom is visiting Thursday.”
My chest tightened.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “I understand.”
“No, no, wait. Let me see if I can move things around.”
“Abby, it’s fine. Really. Your father and I can handle it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, but Mom… call me after. Okay? Tell me everything.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
I hung up.
Frank was still staring out the window.
“She can’t make it,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” he said.
He nodded slowly. “It’s okay. She’s busy. They both are. That’s good. We raised them to have full lives.”
I wanted to believe him. But something had shifted. Something small. Something I couldn’t name yet.
It would take me three more years to understand what it was.
June 2021 to December 2022.
The eighteen months Frank started chemotherapy in June. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I drove him to Metobrook General. We’d arrive at 8:00 a.m., check in at the oncology desk, and sit in the waiting room with a dozen other people who all had that same look—the look of fighting something invisible.
The first session lasted four hours. I sat next to Frank’s recliner, holding his hand while poison dripped into his veins. He tried to read, but the nausea made it hard to focus. So instead, we talked about nothing, about everything—about the garden he wanted to plant when he felt better, about the trip to Maine we’d always talked about taking but never did.
Jeffrey called that night.
“Hey, Mom. How’d it go?”
“It was hard, but he got through it.”
“That’s good. That’s really good. Listen, I wanted to come visit this weekend, but Megan’s got a work thing and I need to watch Emily.”
“It’s okay, Jeff. Maybe next weekend.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Next weekend.”
Next weekend didn’t happen either. Or the weekend after that.
He came once in July. Stayed for three hours. Spent most of it on his phone, answering work emails, apologizing every time it rang.
Abigail came more often—twice a month, maybe—but she always had to leave early. Lucas had soccer practice. Patrick needed the car. She had a PTA meeting.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she’d say every time. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
By September, Frank had lost thirty pounds. His face was hollow. His hands shook when he tried to hold a coffee cup, but he still insisted on sitting in his blue armchair every morning, reading the paper, drinking his coffee at 6:00 a.m. like he’d done for 40 years.
That armchair—God, I loved that chair. We’d bought it in 1985 when we first moved into this house. Dark blue fabric, deep cushions, sturdy wooden arms. Frank had sat in it every single morning since then. It had molded to the shape of him. When I sat in it—which I only did when he was at the hospital—it felt like being held by him.
One morning in October, I came downstairs at 6:15 and found him asleep in the chair. The newspaper slipped from his hands onto the floor.
I didn’t wake him.
I just made coffee the way he liked it—strong and black—and sat on the couch across from him, watching him breathe.
November 2022.
“Sharon.”
I looked up from the stove. Frank was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame. He looked tired. He always looked tired.
“Now, I need to tell you something.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“I’ve been working on something with Howard Jennings.”
