Instead, I walked into our bedroom, packed a bag for myself and the twins, and called my sister, Caroline.
“Can you take us in tonight?” My voice didn’t sound like mine.
She didn’t ask questions. “I’ll get the guest room ready.”
Within an hour, we were gone. I left Joshua a note:
“Don’t call.
I need time.”
At Caroline’s, I finally broke.
I didn’t sleep. I lay awake replaying everything.
In the morning, as the boys colored quietly on the floor, one name echoed in my head: Dr. Samson.
I opened Joshua’s laptop.
The truth was there—scan results, notes, and an unsigned message from Dr.
Samson urging him to tell me.
My hands trembled as I called.
“I’m Hanna, Joshua’s wife,” I said. “I found the records. I know about the lymphoma.
Is there anything left to try?”
His voice softened. “There is a trial. But it’s risky, expensive, and the waiting list is long.”
My breath caught.
“Can he get in?”
“We can try. But insurance won’t cover it.”
I looked at the boys.
