Two days later, I drove nearly two hours to a quiet neighborhood and knocked on a modest door.
A man named William answered.
He was Darla’s oncologist.
That’s when the second tragedy revealed itself.
A year before the accident, Darla had been diagnosed with stage-four cancer. Advanced. Aggressive.
She had kept it hidden.
From me.
From her husband.
From everyone.
William told me she spent her final months preparing for her children’s futures—quietly, deliberately. Buying gifts. Writing letters. Recording messages.
“She didn’t want anyone watching her fade,” he said.
He handed me a small velvet pouch.
Inside was a locket.
The photo inside showed the children hugging me at the lake last summer. Darla had taken it.
“She trusted you,” he added softly.
On the drive home, something kept bothering me.
Why had she hidden the diagnosis from her husband?
The answer came unexpectedly.
One afternoon, Molly showed me a drawing she had made months ago.
Four children. Mommy. Daddy.
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