I remember her first cry in the delivery room, the way her tiny fingers curled around mine, and how I promised to protect her from everything. Decades later, I was holding that same hand as life slowly slipped away from her body, cancer having taken almost everything except her courage. Deborah had always been vibrant, stubborn, gloriously alive. Even when the diagnosis came at 35, stage 4 and merciless, she chose hope, humour, and brutal honesty, especially for Hugo and Eloise.
Now, at 16 and 14, they carry a grief far too heavy for such young shoulders. I watch them search for their mother in old videos, in her voice notes, in the way they catch each other’s eye and share a half-smile that looks just like hers. I couldn’t save my daughter, but I can stand guard over her children, loving them for all three of us.
