It all started on a Wednesday evening. James and I had just settled in after a long day when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there they were: Linda, her husband Martin, and their kids, Kevin and Sophie. They looked less like visitors and more like they were moving in for good. “Lisa, we need your help,” Linda said, her voice trembling. “I have cancer.” The words hit me like a punch. Cancer. My knees almost buckled. James jumped up from the couch, rushing to her side. “Linda,

Hospitals have a strange way of swallowing time. Days merge into one another under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, punctuated only by the steady hum of machines that never sleep. The walls are white, the air smells of disinfectant and quiet endings, and silence stretches between soft beeps that seem to whisper how fragile life really is. For one mother, that world had become her life. Her seven-year-old son, Liam, had been battling leukemia for two long, grueling years. Two years of pokes, needles, tears, treatments, and endless hope

I let my sister-in-law, Tessa, stay with us when I was eight months pregnant. She promised it would be temporary. Just a week or two, she said, until she got back on her feet. Two months later, while Mark and I were out with our newborn, she destroyed our kitchen and walked away smirking. She thought she’d gotten away with it. She was very wrong. I wish I could say I understood Tessa, that there was some hidden pain behind her actions. Maybe growing up in her big brother’s shadow