You know, when I think about our life together, I don’t see the hard moments first. I see the kitchen. I see you in that apron you loved, hair pulled back, laughing because the kids were trying to “help” and making twice the mess. That’s how our traditions began, didn’t it? Every holiday, every birthday, each of our children bringing out their dish as if it were a trophy, all because you taught them that food wasn’t just something to eat—it was something to share.

A piece of love, plated.

I remember how simple it all was, how steady. No drama, no chaos, just a family growing, learning, living. You made it all possible. Our two eldest became professionals with your encouragement, and the younger three—still in college—they cling to that cooking tradition as if it anchors them to you. Maybe it does.

And yet, all of that feels so far away now. Everything changed the day you got sick. Our home became quieter, heavier. Even the laughter felt careful, as though no one wanted to disturb your rest. But you know our children—they stepped up. They’ve been helping me take care of you. They never once complained. You would’ve been proud, the way they hovered over you, the way they tried to hide their tears.

And tonight, after dinner, I carry your medicine into the bedroom. The lamp throws a soft glow over you as you sit propped against the pillows, thinner than you should be, but still—still so beautiful. Your eyes find mine, and you reach for my hand. Your palm feels small, warm, fragile against my own.

“Promise me you’ll take care of our children,” you whisper.

The words cut through me like nothing else ever has. My throat tightens. I shake my head, clutching your hand tighter, as if I can anchor you here by sheer will.

“Please,” I say, my voice cracking, “don’t say it like that. Don’t make it sound like you’re saying goodbye to me.”

Your lips tremble into the faintest smile, but your eyes are serious, too knowing.

But even as I said it, I knew. I knew that time isn’t on our side, that we may not grow old together the way we always dreamed when we were twenty. We’re already in our fifties, and yet I still feel like that young man who fell in love with you over simmering pots and stolen glances.

I don’t want to imagine life without you, but tonight, sitting here with your hand in mine, I realized I’ll carry you with me in everything—every recipe, every laugh of our children, every quiet tradition you gave us.

And maybe that’s the hardest part. Knowing love doesn’t end, even when time runs out.