I live now in the quiet after a hurricane, trying to honor a daughter who refused to be defined by the disease that killed her. Deborah turned her terror into service, her pain into purpose. While her body weakened, her voice only grew stronger, dragging bowel cancer into the light so others might live longer, braver lives. She showed the world that you can stare death in the face and still choose sequins, laughter, and radical hope.
In the small, ordinary rituals of my days, I keep her close. I show up for Hugo and Eloise, steady when the grief ambushes them, gentle when the anger comes. I talk about their mother in the present tense because, in our home, she has not vanished; she has expanded. In every sparkly dress I dare to wear, in every moment I refuse to postpone joy, I am still holding her hand.