I’m 70 years old. Every morning, I pack an old, second-hand cart with my wooden easel, a couple of blank canvases, and a set of oil paints I’ve been stretching thin for the past two months. Then I walk—slowly, carefully—five blocks to the park where I paint. It’s the same spot I’ve been at since everything changed. I set up near the pond, by a crooked bench with peeling green paint. Ducks gather there, kids toss breadcrumbs, and their parents stare at their phones. This is where I work now.

It was a quiet Wednesday evening when Linda and her family showed up at our doorstep. James and I had just settled in after a long day when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and froze. Standing there were Linda, her brother Martin, and her kids, Kevin and Sophie. They looked like they were moving in permanently, not just visiting. “Lisa, we need your help,” Linda said, her voice trembling. “I have cancer.” The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Cancer. My knees went weak. James

Hospitals have a strange way of swallowing time. Days melt into one another under the cold glow of fluorescent lights, the soft hum of machines marking every passing second. The walls are white, almost too bright, and the air carries the sharp scent of disinfectant, tinged with endings. Silence hangs in corners, broken only by the soft beeps of monitors reminding everyone of life’s fragility. For one mother, this had become her world. Her seven-year-old son, Liam, had been battling leukemia for two long, exhausting years. Two years filled with