She would still need chemotherapy and regular monitoring, but her odds of a full recovery were high. Della broke down in relief when the oncologist told us.

The months after were brutal — nausea, crushing fatigue, sleepless nights, mornings she couldn’t bear to face the mirror.

I taught myself to make nourishing broths, to keep her medication schedule straight, to sit with her in silence when there was nothing useful to say.

I sold the truck Tara had bought with my money and put every cent toward Della’s treatment and a comfortable home in Tulsa, away from the memories we wanted to leave behind.

I quit the camp in Alberta for good and put my savings into a small metal-fabrication shop with my old high-school friend, Sean Doyle.

I earned less than I had up north — but I came home every evening, ate dinner beside Della, and was grateful just to have her there.