It had only been in the last few weeks that such morbid thoughts had come to her. Before that, in the months since her diagnosis—what she thought of as D-Day—she did everything she was supposed to do, and she did it with a smile for everyone in the room.

Surgery—Sure, cut me open and take my breasts.

Radiation—Absolutely. Burn me up.

Chemotherapy—Another dose of poison, please.

Tofu and miso soup—Yum. May I have some more?

Crystals. Meditation. Visualization. Chinese herbs.

She’d done it all, and done it with vigor. Even more important, she’d believed in all of it, believed she’d be cured.

The effort had winded her; the belief had broken her.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Leaning sideways, she turned on the bedside lamp. Johnny, who’d grown used to her weird waking/sleeping schedule, rolled onto his side and murmured, “You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine. Keep sleeping.”

Mumbling something, he rolled back over. In no time, she heard his quiet snore.

Kate reached over for the journal Tully had bought her. Holding it, she traced the leather etchings and the gold-edged sheets of paper.

It would hurt to do this; of that she had no doubt. To pick up a pen and write down her life, she’d have to remember it all, who she was, who she’d wanted to be. Those memories would be painful, both the good and the bad would wound her.

But her children would see through the illness to her, the woman they would always remember, but never truly have time to know. Tully was right. The only gift Kate could give them now was the truth of who she was.

She flipped the journal open. Because she had no clear idea of where to start, she simply began to write.