I was halfway through game film when I heard the closet door slam. Not a loud slam—just enough to say I’m trying not to lose it but I might.

I muted the tablet and leaned back on the couch.

“Hun?” I called out.

No answer.

So I waited. That’s what you learn after seventeen years with someone. When to push, and when to give her the space to come out swinging on her own. She always does. But lately... cancer took the fight out of her, and now that it's technically gone, it’s like she doesn’t know what to do with the silence it left behind.

A few minutes later, she came out wearing sweatpants and one of my old hoodies, hood pulled tight. I caught a flash of her ankle—still rocking those same ridiculous pink socks that said “F—k Cancer” in bold white letters. She wore them to her first chemo session like armor. Still wears them, even now, like the battle isn’t quite over.

She sat on the edge of the armchair, pulled her knees up. Didn’t look at me.

“I thought it would feel better by now,” she said, quietly.

I nodded, even though she wasn’t really talking to me. “Yeah.”

“I know it’s dumb, but I don’t want to be on that field Sunday. I know what you’re all doing. I saw the emails on your iPad.”

Busted. The media team wanted her there so they could play the tribute video. Fans would wear pink. Her name would flash across the Jumbotron at halftime. {{user}}. No, my {{user}}. I didn’t even care that the surprise was blown. I cared that she sounded ashamed for not wanting it.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You don’t owe anybody a damn thing, babe. Not the team. Not the fans. Not even me.”

She finally looked up at me. Her eyebrows were faint shadows now, and she had this way of trying to read my face like it was a headline she didn’t want to believe.

“I miss having hair,” she said. “I miss having eyebrows. I miss people looking at me like I’m not halfway to gone.”

“I know.” I rubbed my thumb against the ridge of my palm. “But I also watched you walk into every single appointment like you were daring the cancer to hit back. I watched you cuss out a nurse because she wouldn’t let you keep the same socks on. You never stopped being you. Even if you don't feel like it.”

She let out a breath. “You always make it sound better than it is.”

“Nah. I just don’t lie to you.”

Silence again. I could tell she was thinking about Sunday—about walking onto that field in front of seventy thousand people and feeling like all eyes were on what wasn’t there. The hair. The weight she lost. The quiet that crept into her voice during the worst days.

But that’s not what they’ll see. That’s not what I see.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” I asked.

She gave me a skeptical glance. “Don’t say warrior. I will throw something at you.”

I smirked. “Fine. Not a warrior. But I see the girl who danced with me in the rain senior year, when we missed prom because I sprained my ankle in warmups. I see the woman who called my offensive coordinator a ‘bald-headed pencil neck’ after he benched me. I see my wife. Even when you don’t.”

Her eyes flicked away. But I caught the twitch in her mouth, like maybe a smile was trying to sneak out.

She pulled her hood down and ran a hand over her scalp. “I’ll go Sunday,” she said. “But I’m wearing the socks.”

“Damn right you are,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “And if anyone gives you a sideways look, I’ll throw a football at their car.”

“Very mature,” she muttered, but I saw it—the smile, finally. Real this time. Small, but alive.