Now, the silence of my morning was quiet, soft, and unbroken.
I sat on the back porch of our new home in West Seattle, holding a mug of warm coffee in both hands. The house wasn’t a mansion—I had no desire for marble floors or sweeping staircases—but it was solid, warm, and perched on a gentle hill that looked out toward the Puget Sound. Downstairs, I could hear the faint, comforting sounds of my daughters waking up.
Maya, who had spent the last two years enduring brutal chemotherapy cycles and grueling surgeries, was downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast. Her hair was growing back in soft, dark curls. The gray tint that had settled into her skin during her sickness was gone, replaced by a flush of healthy color. Her sister, Chloe, was laughing at something on her phone while setting the table.
For the first time since they were born, my girls weren’t worrying about me, and I wasn’t terrified for them.
