It started with the texts.
My dad would message us from Florida while we were at work — calm, clipped, unraveling in slow motion — saying:
“Don’t come down.”
Then: “Maybe come.”
Then: “No, don’t.”
Then: “Actually come.”
Then: “Wait.”
For days.
He toggled between denial and panic like a broken signal. We didn’t know if we were supposed to book flights, stay put, or pretend everything was fine.
Then the final message came:
“Come now.”
So we did.
When we walked into their home, he surprised us again: he didn’t want us to leave a trace of being there.
Not a towel out of place.
Not a pillow shifted.
Not even a hint of daughters in the house — despite the fact that we were literally sleeping there.
It wasn’t about neighbors.
He didn’t want her to know we were in the house at all.
June didn’t want anyone to see her “like this,” and Dad — exhausted, scared, and running on fumes — was trying to honor that even as everything was coming apart.
So Kara and I moved around like grief-trained CIA operatives, whispering, tiptoeing, washing towels, keeping our suitcases zipped tight, memorizing where every picture frame and knickknack had been placed so we could put it back exactly.
It felt like a covert operation, but one built by heartbreak, not strategy.
The Snack Incident
We made the mistake of eating in the car.
June’s pristine six-month-old leased car — not Dad’s 2001 Toyota he treats like a war veteran and lifelong friend.
We were mid-bite — sandwiches halfway to our mouths — when he caught us. You’d think we fired a weapon.
Apparently, during their 1,600-mile drives from Florida to Maine, they never — under any circumstances — ate in the car.
“How did you survive that long without snacks?” we asked.
Dead serious, Dad said:
“We stopped to eat. Every meal.”
As if that were reasonable.
As if a rogue pretzel would implode the marriage.
As if we weren’t one crumb away from sacrilege.
We sat there like deer caught in headlights, holding our contraband turkey & swiss like criminals.
Meanwhile, the real nightmare was unfolding in the hospital room.
Dad was terrified.
Not of us being seen — but of losing the second woman he ever loved.
He hadn’t slept.
He wasn’t eating.
He couldn’t keep a thought in his head.
He spent eight straight days in the ICU with her, sleeping in the recliner (that was probably leftover from the 90’s) — barely leaving to shower three times total — watching her endure 10/10 pain while doctors gave him no answers, no information. No returned calls. No clear diagnosis. No plan.
The day we arrived, they finally told him what was happening and said they’d be transferring her to hospice the next morning.
He panicked.
He didn’t want to move her.
She said she wanted no pain — or to go home to Jesus.
June always said hospice was where people went to die.
She wasn’t wrong.
He didn’t know what to do.
He needed us, even if he couldn’t say those words out loud.
Hospice accepted her, sedated her, and moved her. She wasn’t happy — furious, actually — but after arriving there, she barely woke up again.
Dad stayed for two days straight, refusing to leave. When she stopped waking entirely, he came home to sleep. And he was like a different person — memory clearer, thoughts steadier — but grief hitting in unpredictable waves: angry, sad, frustrated, crying, yelling, and whistling sorrow songs like they were leaking out of him.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving arrived with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Really wasn’t feeling all that grateful right then. We had talked Dad into coming home for a pre-made turkey dinner from Costco. Then, the hospice staff cornered us:
“She has been accepted into a nursing facility- it’s time to move her again.”
Kara and I freaked.
I said, “She’s been here two days. We never would’ve moved her here if we knew she’d have to move again.”
Kara said, “We feel pressured, and we don’t want to move her. What if we refuse? Does she still meet criteria to be here?”
She did.
They backed off.
Dad said nothing.
I swear he took his hearing aids out.
He was done.
No more decisions.
No more battles.
Wanda
Meanwhile, Wanda — June’s only real daughter — was basically paralyzed by fear, unable to fly alone, unable to leave her 80-year-old husband who might as well be wearing adult diapers, convinced the zombie apocalypse would happen if she stepped outside her ZIP code.
She couldn’t even go in the room to see June after she passed. She said she “didn’t want to see her like that,” but honestly, I think she was still obeying June’s old commandments.
Dad had us. Only us.
The Dog Chapter (Because Why Have One Crisis When You Can Have Three)
Ariel had her leg amputated Friday.
We picked her up Saturday.
I flew to Florida Sunday.
That’s how much time we had between “major surgery” and “good luck, Patrick.”
And in that tiny window, I watched something I didn’t expect: she looked relieved.
This seventy-five-pound anxious girl who had been hiding agony for months was suddenly lighter. Freer. Like she could finally rest inside her own body.
It broke me.
Patrick, meanwhile, was home alone with a traumatized, three-legged German Shepherd who:
– was doped up,
– terrified of strangers touching her,
– still learning how to balance,
– and determined to protect herself in her most vulnerable moment.
So she tried to bite the dog walker.
Because of course she did.
Fear.
Survival.
Instinct.
And then the insurance company called.
“Hi, we need more medical records.”
Funny, since they already have:
• every record from before we even adopted her,
• every exam, scan, and X-ray,
• every surgery, prescription, pathology report,
• every oncology note,
• and now they want the notes from her one physical therapy session — the one where they measured her shrinking leg and said she wasn’t a candidate.
They don’t even cover PT.
They just want paperwork for sport.
And of course they’re trying to claim a “pre-existing cruciate injury,” which she never had, confirmed by the very expensive board-certified surgeon, because apparently gaslighting is free.
What they didn’t plan on:
I am getting every dollar of their $7,500 reimbursement maximum this year.
Every. Single. One.
I’ve spent more than $15,000 keeping her alive and out of pain — while unemployed for two months thanks to a former asshole boss — and I’m not backing down.
Not now.
Not ever.
The Butterfly
Dad sat with June, held her hand, and told her she could go.
That he’d be okay.
That he would take care of Wanda.
He walked outside afterward, and a butterfly flew beside him the entire way while he walked back to us — almost like a piece of her followed him, that finally broke free.
She died six hours later.
We saw the butterfly.
We felt it.
And then the call came.
Two Mothers
Dad has lost two wives.
I have lost two mothers.
Aren’t we just special. The BOGO package?
And through all of this — this entire disaster of a year — June was praying for me every day.
Can you imagine how much worse 2025 would’ve been without that?
The Whistling
Dad has been whistling grief songs without meaning to.
They slip out of him when his heart gets too full.
The latest one?
“You Were Always On My Mind.”
It floated out of him like a cracked love letter to both lives he lost.
The Moral People Want
I still had a new job to be flawless at.
Still had to act reliable.
Still had to be the responsible one while everything I loved fell apart in parallel storylines.
People kept saying, “You’re so strong,” which is hilarious because I felt like I was one sad song away from a complete breakdown.
Some years don’t offer lessons.
Some years are just survival.
Some years are sequels nobody asked for — starring you against your will, filmed while you’re still bruised from the original.
But here’s the truth:
I didn’t break.
I bent.
I sagged.
I swore.
I leaked tears in public restrooms — but I didn’t break.
I’m still here.
Still showing up.
Still swinging at whatever fresh hell 2025 throws next.
Tonight, I’m calling it.
Tomorrow, I’ll get back up.
Because apparently that’s my job this year.
And honestly?
That’s the plot twist.
Thank you so much ❤️. I hope next year brings much happiness for both of us!!!
I hope 2026 is better, and I hope society does better as a whole.