I’m 43, and I work the morning shift at a tiny grocery store on Main Street. Some days, it feels like I’m barely keeping upright while the world spins too fast around me. I like to catch the sunrise through the loading dock door, though. The first light spilling over the crates and cardboard reminds me: showing up is half the battle. Half, but sometimes it feels like more. It’s not glamorous work. Nobody dreams of stocking shelves or breaking down pallets for a living. But after everything my family

I’m 70 years old, and almost every morning, I wheel out an old, second-hand cart. On it, I load my wooden easel, a couple of blank canvases, and a set of oil paints that I’ve been stretching thin for the last two months. Then I walk—slowly, step by step—five blocks to the same park I’ve been painting in since my life changed forever. I set up near the pond, by a crooked bench with green paint peeling off, where ducks gather and children toss breadcrumbs while their parents stare at

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,