Two weeks ago, I woke up to find chunks of my long, auburn hair scattered across my pillow. My hand flew to the back of my head, and the jagged edges confirmed it—someone had cut my hair while I slept.

Furious, I stormed into the kitchen where my husband Caleb was casually sipping coffee. “Caleb, what happened to my hair?” I demanded.

He looked up, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“THIS!” I pointed at my uneven hair. “Someone cut it last night!”

He furrowed his brow. “Maybe Oliver did it. Kids do weird things.”

I turned to our son. “Sweetie, did you cut Mommy’s hair?”

Oliver froze, his wide blue eyes welling with tears. “I… I didn’t mean to,” he whispered.

“Why?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

He sniffled, glancing at Caleb. “Dad told me to. He said it was for the box.”

My stomach dropped. “What box, sweetie?” I demanded.

He led me to his room. He opened his closet, shoved aside a pile of clothes, and pulled out a battered old shoebox.

Inside were dried flower from my wedding bouquet, the necklace with the broken clasp I thought I’d lost, a photo of the three of us at the park. And strands of my hair, lying there like dead things.

“Oliver, why are you keeping these things?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“Daddy said… he said I’d need something so I can remember you when you’re gone.”

The words hit me so hard I had to grab the doorframe to keep from falling. My breath hitched in my throat as I tried to process it.

“Why would you think I’m going to be gone, baby?”

“Because Daddy said so,” he whispered.

“Daddy told the man on the phone you’re really sick and that… that… when you’re gone, I’d need things to help me remember you… so I took these things and kept them in this box…”

I pulled him into a tight hug. It took a while for me to calm Oliver. Then I went straight to the kitchen to get to the bottom of this mess.

“Caleb. Why does our son think I’m dying?”

“Oliver thinks I’m going to die,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “He’s been saving my hair and God-knows-what else in a shoebox because he overheard you telling someone I’m sick and he’d need something to remember me by when I’m gone. Why would you do that to him? To me?”

“He wasn’t supposed to hear that.”, Caleb said.

“What did you mean by ‘sick,’ Caleb?” I asked slowly, every word deliberate and sharp. “Is this related to my fatigue? All those doctor’s appointments?”

His eyes darted to the window. I knew that look. I knew it too well. The flight response. Not this time.

“Don’t you dare,” I said. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

Caleb sighed heavily.

He pulled out a crumpled paper. I snatched it from him.

My name was at the top. Below it, the words: Oncology referral. Further testing recommended. Malignant indicators.

“I was going to tell you. I thought if I could hold it together until the timing was right, I could protect you. I was buying us time.”

All the doctors’ appointments and follow-ups he’d taken me to recently to investigate my constant tiredness suddenly shone in a sinister light.

I even told the doctors directly, “You can just tell my husband.”

I told myself it was trust. It was love. But the truth was, I was so bone-tired all the time, and he was supposed to be my partner, my safety net.

But now, I could see the lie inside that comfort.

“How could you keep this from me?” I whispered, eyes still on the page. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Because I love you! I needed to protect you until I could figure it out, Connie.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter, “But now our son believes I’m dying… we don’t even know what this is yet, but he still knew about it before me. That’s not fair on him or me.”

“I didn’t intend for him to hear me saying those things, and I didn’t know how to tell you, okay? You never want to listen to the results when we go for a normal check-up, so how was I supposed to bring this up?”

His words echoed in my head, and guilt settled heavily in my gut. He was right.

It was time I stood up and took responsibility for myself.

Later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand. My hair was a mess. I took the first snip. Then another. I kept cutting until I wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

When I stepped into the living room, Caleb looked up, eyes red from crying.

“You look strong,” he said quietly.

That night, Oliver and I sat on the floor with his shoebox between us.

“This box isn’t just for sad things. We can fill it with happy memories, too.”

He grinned widely, reaching for a drawing of us as superheroes. We added it to the box.

It was a box for hope. It wasn’t a box for grief anymore. I was going to book that oncology referral appointment myself tomorrow, and if the results were bad… well, then I would fight for my life.