She was less than a month shy of 35 when she finally died.
A non-smoker, she had nonetheless been diagnosed with lung cancer. By the time she got her persistent cough checked out, she was too sick for anything but palliative treatments. She got her affairs in order, recorded home movies for her young daughters, and tried to remain hopeful even as the cancer ravaged through her body.
She did not live to see me turn two. She did not live to publish her first book. She did not live to turn 35.
She left us behind, knowing he could not care for us. She had no choice. She was leaving her daughters and knew it and could do nothing to change it.
My second child has turned two, a milestone I was relieved to witness. I have not published my first book. And my 35th birthday is on September 25.
I will be on tenterhooks until then. I am not superstitious, but then again, maybe I am. Check in with me on the 26th.