The first few weeks were a blur of white rooms, soft-spoken nurses, and the hum of machines. Evan was there for all of it — sleeping on the recliner, fetching her water, kissing her forehead between appointments. He joked when she couldn’t, filled the silence when she was too tired to speak. She told her mother she didn’t know what she’d do without him.
But cancer has a way of hollowing out more than bodies. It drains accounts, routines, and certainties too. Even with insurance, every bill that came through the door felt heavier than the last. Evan started picking up extra shifts, staying late, taking freelance work he hadn’t done in years.