Later, under string lights, the photographer lined us up—seven daughters in gowns, one dad, one mom. “On three. Everybody look at Thomas.” He laughed. “Why me?” Sophie said, “Because you’re the reason.”
Flash.
That night, exhausted, Thomas whispered, “Okay. I’m done being brave.”
At home, he paused at the doorway, staring at the pencil marks of the girls’ heights on the trim. “They’re all taller than me now.” “You made them tall,” I said.
He squeezed my hand. “Promise me something else. Don’t let them pretend they’re fine. Not after I’m gone.” My throat burned. “Promise.”
The girls piled into the living room in mismatched gowns, laughing too loud because quiet was scary. Grace asked, “Did we do okay?” “Better than okay,” I said.
Sophie leaned on my shoulder. “Mom? Can we do more? Like… more memories?”
I looked at their faces, at the mess, at the love. “Yes.”
Emily nodded. “We make a list.” Hannah lifted her phone. “I’ll start one.”
Nora said, “Rule one. Dad gets veto power.” Paige added, “Rule two. We don’t waste good days.” Lily whispered, “Rule three. We tell the truth.”
And for the first time since Dr. Patel spoke those words, I felt something solid under my feet. Not hope. Not denial. A plan.
