EPILOGUE
Blake
Nine years later
Flowers and gifts surrounded her headstone. It didn’t surprise me; she made an impact on a lot of people in her lifetime. I stood tall in front of the shrine. It had been three years since she had passed, and each year got easier without her. My eyes trailed over the letters, her name printed in bright-red ink: C. A. Hunter, just above the large pink ribbon.
Small hands gripped my fingers. “Dad?”
I smiled down at our son. His little five-year-old face was scrunched as he tried to block the sun from his eyes. I jerked my head toward the headstone. “Say hello, Clayton.”
His gazed moved to the shrine, his head dropping as the words left his mouth. “Hi, Grandma.”
Then Chloe was next to me. Her hand on the crook of my elbow, the other arm carrying our youngest son, Jordan. “Wow,” she said, her brown hair whipping all over her face. “Look at all the stuff people have left.”
I took Jordan from her and set him down on his wobbly feet. “This is your Grandma, buddy. It’s a shame you didn’t get to meet her. She was kind of amazing.”
We stayed for a few minutes as a family before Chloe took our boys for a walk. She thought I needed some alone time, and she was right.
Mom had passed quickly and unexpectedly. Unlike Chloe, she’d had absolutely no idea that death was coming. Seven months. Seven months was all it had taken. She’d fought, every day, until her last. And when it had been time, she’d left in peace.
The last book she’d written became her most successful. Chloe had helped her write it. It was about a boy who went for a run in the middle of the night and the girl who was there to save him . . .
To my beautiful girl, Chloe,
I hope there never comes a time when you have to read this, but if you are, then that must mean you’re scared. And I’m here to tell you that that’s okay. Not that it’s okay in the sense that things will be okay, but it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be afraid of the things ahead you. I am. I’m scared. But I have the support of the people around me, who will help me get through this, who will help me when I need them the most, because they love me, even when I don’t deserve it.
You’re too young to remember, but I used to tell you this story. A story about red-letter days. A girl in my sorority, Celia, used to tell it to us. She used to come up with these fascinating stories of love and life. We all told her she should be a writer, but she said it was a pipe dream.
She told us about black-and red-letter days. Black were for those days that were doomed, or when bad news would be handed to you. Like the day I found out I had cancer—that was a black-letter day. You—you’re my red-letter day. When I gave birth and held you for the first time, that was the start of many, many red-letter days. Celia—she explained it in words that left such an impact that, to this day, I still remember them. Red-letter days are a positive experience or when something unexpectedly phenomenal happens—you, my beautiful Chloe, are my unexpectedly phenomenal.
So, if you get to this, and you have some time left, I want you to do something for me. I want you to fight. I want you to hold on to the people around you, and I want you to fight it. And if things don’t go your way, and you find yourself losing the battle, then I want you to look back on your life and think about all the living you did. Do not let cancer be the story of your life. And don’t ever write ‘The End.’ Not until all your days are red-letter days.
I love you.
Mom
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jay McLean is an avid reader, writer, and, most of all, procrastinator. She writes what she loves to read—books that can make her laugh, make her smile, make her hurt, and make her feel. She currently lives in Australia with her fiancé, two sons, and two dogs. Follow Jay on Instagram and Twitter @jaymcleanauthor. For more information, visit her blog at www.jaymcleanauthor.com.