Chapter 13
The weeks that followed were the happiest and most terrible of my life.
Happy because Alexander was there. Every morning. Every night. Every painful moment in between.
He learned my medication schedule within two days. He tracked my blood counts with the same precision he used in surgery. He argued with my oncologist about treatment options and read every clinical trial paper he could find, searching for something, anything, that might buy me more time.
Some days were good. We would sit by the window and he would read to me, or we would look at old photos on his phone, ones I did not know he had kept.
"I never deleted them," he said quietly when I asked. "Not a single one. Even when I hated you. I couldn't."
Some days were bad.
Days when the pain was so severe that morphine barely touched it. Days when I could not keep water down. Days when I slipped in and out of consciousness and woke to find Alexander beside me, still holding my hand, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness.
My mother came every day. She and Alexander did not speak much at first.
But one evening, I woke from a nap and heard them in the kitchen.
My mother's voice, low and fierce.
"You can't save her. You know that."
Silence.
"I'm asking you not to let her see you fall apart. She spent five years being strong for everyone else. Let her final days be peaceful."
More silence.
Then Alexander's voice, barely audible.
"I don't know how to live after this."
My mother said nothing for a long time.
Then, very quietly: "Neither do I."
After that, they operated as a unit. Mom handled the practical things: food, nurses, laundry. Alexander handled the medical things. Together, they kept my world small and safe and full of love.
Three weeks before the end, Alexander brought me something.
A ring.
Not flashy. Not expensive. A thin gold band with a single tiny diamond.
"I bought this eight years ago," he said. "Right before your twenty-second birthday. I was going to propose."
My vision blurred.
"You were?"
"I had a whole plan. Dinner at that Italian place you loved. Then a walk by the river. I was going to get down on one knee by the bridge."
He slid the ring onto my finger.
It was too big now. My fingers had become skeletal.
He held it in place with his thumb.
"Marry me," he said.
"Alexander, I'm dying."
"Marry me anyway."
I looked at the ring. At his hand holding mine. At his face, thinner now too, because he had barely eaten in weeks.
"Okay," I said.
We got married three days later.
In my apartment. With my mother and a justice of the peace and no one else.
I wore a white sweater because I could not bear the weight of a dress. Alexander wore the blue button-down I had always loved on him.
When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Alexander took my face in his hands so gently, like I was made of something precious and impossibly fragile.
He kissed me.
And for one perfect, shining moment, nothing else existed.
Not the cancer.
Not the lost years.
Not the pain waiting in the wings.
Just his mouth on mine. His hands on my face. His whisper against my lips.
"I love you. I have always loved you. Only you."
I spent my last days as Alexander's wife.
I spent them knowing, finally and completely, that I was loved.
That night, after everyone left, I lay with my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat.
"Alexander."
"Hmm."
"I need you to promise me something."
His arm tightened around me.
"When I'm gone," I said, "live. Really live. Not the way you lived for the last five years. Not surviving. Living."
He was quiet for a long time.
"Sophia—"
"Promise me."
Silence stretched between us, filled only with the sound of his breathing.
"I promise," he whispered at last.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Happy because Alexander was there. Every morning. Every night. Every painful moment in between.
He learned my medication schedule within two days. He tracked my blood counts with the same precision he used in surgery. He argued with my oncologist about treatment options and read every clinical trial paper he could find, searching for something, anything, that might buy me more time.
Some days were good. We would sit by the window and he would read to me, or we would look at old photos on his phone, ones I did not know he had kept.
"I never deleted them," he said quietly when I asked. "Not a single one. Even when I hated you. I couldn't."
Some days were bad.
Days when the pain was so severe that morphine barely touched it. Days when I could not keep water down. Days when I slipped in and out of consciousness and woke to find Alexander beside me, still holding my hand, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness.
My mother came every day. She and Alexander did not speak much at first.
But one evening, I woke from a nap and heard them in the kitchen.
My mother's voice, low and fierce.
"You can't save her. You know that."
Silence.
"I'm asking you not to let her see you fall apart. She spent five years being strong for everyone else. Let her final days be peaceful."
More silence.
Then Alexander's voice, barely audible.
"I don't know how to live after this."
My mother said nothing for a long time.
Then, very quietly: "Neither do I."
After that, they operated as a unit. Mom handled the practical things: food, nurses, laundry. Alexander handled the medical things. Together, they kept my world small and safe and full of love.
Three weeks before the end, Alexander brought me something.
A ring.
Not flashy. Not expensive. A thin gold band with a single tiny diamond.
"I bought this eight years ago," he said. "Right before your twenty-second birthday. I was going to propose."
My vision blurred.
"You were?"
"I had a whole plan. Dinner at that Italian place you loved. Then a walk by the river. I was going to get down on one knee by the bridge."
He slid the ring onto my finger.
It was too big now. My fingers had become skeletal.
He held it in place with his thumb.
"Marry me," he said.
"Alexander, I'm dying."
"Marry me anyway."
I looked at the ring. At his hand holding mine. At his face, thinner now too, because he had barely eaten in weeks.
"Okay," I said.
We got married three days later.
In my apartment. With my mother and a justice of the peace and no one else.
I wore a white sweater because I could not bear the weight of a dress. Alexander wore the blue button-down I had always loved on him.
When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Alexander took my face in his hands so gently, like I was made of something precious and impossibly fragile.
He kissed me.
And for one perfect, shining moment, nothing else existed.
Not the cancer.
Not the lost years.
Not the pain waiting in the wings.
Just his mouth on mine. His hands on my face. His whisper against my lips.
"I love you. I have always loved you. Only you."
I spent my last days as Alexander's wife.
I spent them knowing, finally and completely, that I was loved.
That night, after everyone left, I lay with my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat.
"Alexander."
"Hmm."
"I need you to promise me something."
His arm tightened around me.
"When I'm gone," I said, "live. Really live. Not the way you lived for the last five years. Not surviving. Living."
He was quiet for a long time.
"Sophia—"
"Promise me."
Silence stretched between us, filled only with the sound of his breathing.
"I promise," he whispered at last.
I closed my eyes and smiled.