She had a rhythm, a routine. Her days were full—appointments at the salon, impromptu lunches, evenings with vinyl records spinning George’s favorite saxophone solos. Retirement had given her time, and George’s insurance had given her security. She wasn’t rich, but she had enough—for travel, for gifts, for comfort.
Then came the diagnosis. And with it, the quiet erosion of everything she’d built. Cancer didn’t just devour the body—it drained the account, unraveled the plans. Medications, scans, hospital stays—all chipping away at the life she’d once taken for granted. When it ended, she was alive—but stripped bare.