Then she asked whether Tucker was doing better.
I explained that his treatment was still difficult and the doctors were monitoring his response.
She listened.
When I finished, she said something that surprised me.
“Sarah would have wanted you to keep loving people.”
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
“No,” she said gently. “I don't think you did.”
I couldn't answer.
She continued.
“She never wanted you to be alone.”
I looked toward the picture.
My throat tightened.
“I miss her.”
“I know.”
“I miss us too.”
There was a long silence.
Then she whispered, “So do I.”
We did not pretend that one conversation could repair our marriage.
Too much time had passed.
We had built separate lives.
But for the first time in years, we spoke about Sarah without trying to escape the pain.
We remembered her favorite song.
Her terrible jokes.
The way she used to hide vegetables beneath her mashed potatoes.
The ridiculous cardboard crown she once made me wear during a pretend birthday party for her stuffed rabbit.
We laughed.
We cried.
And when we finally said goodbye, I felt something loosen inside me.
I was still grieving.
But I wasn't hiding from it quite so desperately.
Over the following months, the Iron Ghosts settled into a routine.
We didn't visit Tucker every day.
That would have been overwhelming for him and Angie.
Instead, we coordinated around his treatment schedule, energy level, and medical team's guidance.
Sometimes one of us brought groceries.
Sometimes Ron drove Angie to an appointment while her car was being serviced.
Sometimes a club member repaired something in the apartment.
Other times we simply sent a message asking whether they needed anything that week.
The nonprofit helped Angie access practical resources and kept the fundraising support organized.
She began receiving assistance with eligible travel and treatment-related expenses.
The relief was real.
But it didn't remove every worry.
She still lost sleep before scans.
She still had days when Tucker couldn't keep food down.
She still had to manage medication schedules and work obligations.
And she still had to answer questions from a little boy who sometimes wondered whether the cancer would ever stop making him tired.
There were good days.
On good days, Tucker wanted to know everything about motorcycles.
He memorized the colors of our bikes.
He learned which one belonged to Ron.
He could identify mine by the deep, uneven sound of its engine.
He insisted that every motorcycle needed a name.
Mine became Thunder Bear.
Ron's became Big Blue.
The third biker's machine became Angry Potato because Tucker said it sounded like a potato growling.