I thought I was the strong one.
When my wife got the call that her cancer had returned — aggressive and terminal this time — I told myself I would be the rock for our family.
But what I didn’t expect?
That my teenage son would become hers.
The moment we sat down to tell him, I braced for tears. For anger. For silence.
Instead, he stood up and said, “We’ll get through this.”
Then pulled out a notebook and started writing.
“What can I do?”
“How can I help you both?”
I couldn’t even answer.
Because here’s the truth:
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t strong.
And every day since, I’ve watched my son hold onto hope while I struggled just to breathe.
He helped pack chemo bags.
He held her hand during bad days.
Even learned how to make her favorite soup — not because she asked… but because he wanted to see her smile again.
One night, after she had fallen asleep, I sat with him in the kitchen.
I finally whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”
“I’m scared all the time.”
He looked at me and said something I’ll never forget.
“She’s still here.”
“So let’s act like it.”
Those words broke me open.
Because here I was, trying to hide my fear — and my kid was watching. Not judging. Just hurting silently too.
So I did what I should’ve done earlier.
I cried.
In front of him.
Without holding back.
And instead of looking away, he hugged me tighter than ever before.
Because sometimes, parenting isn’t about being perfect.
Sometimes, it’s about showing your child that it’s okay to feel broken — as long as you heal together.
Now, even though my wife is gone, I carry that lesson every day.
And I remind my son often:
“You were stronger than I was.”
“And you taught me how to grieve like a man — not just a husband.”