PART 1 — The Cardigan in the Bag

Simon died while I was six months pregnant, leaving me with two children to think about and more questions than I expected.

Then a stranger appeared with something he had hidden from me.

I was thirty-five, expecting our second daughter.

Our four-year-old, Sadie, still believed Daddy would get better because that was what grown-ups did.

For eight months, my life had been lists.

Medication times.

Oncology appointments.

Insurance calls.

Bills.

Sadie’s preschool schedule.

Later, my prenatal appointments joined them, written in a different color as though that would make the calendar less crowded.

A few weeks before Simon died, he watched me sorting pills at the kitchen table.

“You know you don’t have to control every second of the day, right?”

I checked the label before putting another pill in its compartment.

“I am pregnant, Sadie is four, and my husband has cancer.

Which part should I stop controlling?”

“Maybe start with me.”