The day before my final round of chemo, I baked a cake.

Not store-bought, not fancy. Just yellow with strawberry frosting—messy edges, crooked candle, heart full of hope. My hands were shaking the whole time, but I wanted to do it myself.

Piper was turning one. She wouldn’t remember any of it, I knew that. But I would. Or at least… I wanted to.

I’d already read the scans. I’d already heard the words no 31-year-old mom wants to hear. And I’d already had the conversation with Marcus, the kind where we both cried without looking at each other.

So I decided her first birthday would be magic.

We filled the living room with balloons, all her favorite colors. I wore lipstick for the first time in months. Marcus made a slideshow of our favorite moments—her first laugh, the day she learned to clap, me dancing with her when I still had hair.

I gave her all the hugs I could, even if I wasn’t sure how many moments I had left to give them. As the clock ticked down, I cherished each second, each smile, each laugh. I tried to make it perfect—make it unforgettable, even if only for me.

I remember looking at Marcus after I set Piper down to crawl toward the cake. He smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His face was tired. We were both tired. But he still held the camera steady, ready to capture every small, beautiful thing, as if he were trying to bottle up the moments for later.

I don’t know if he saw the same thing I did—the inevitable truth that was sitting like a weight on my chest. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t want to say it out loud either. We both knew I wouldn’t be there to watch her grow up. I had one shot to make this birthday count, to fill her life with memories even if she couldn’t hold on to them.

The cake was a mess. Piper, of course, had no idea what was happening. She grabbed a handful of frosting and smeared it across her face, giggling as it dripped onto the floor. She was so perfect, so innocent, and I was terrified of what would happen to her when I was gone. What would Marcus do without me? How could I leave him with that burden? How would he raise her without me?

Those questions didn’t stop me from smiling, though. I couldn’t let the fear win. Not on this day. I let the joy of the moment swallow up the sadness, even if only for a few hours.

By the time we blew out the candle, the room was filled with a quiet, unspoken understanding. I didn’t want to leave them. I didn’t want to miss out on her second birthday, her first day of school, or seeing her become a woman. But it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The next day was the start of my final round of chemo. Marcus stayed close, holding my hand, as if somehow he could will the cancer out of my body with sheer willpower alone. I wished it could be that simple.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “we could try something else. We could go to another doctor, look for a new treatment.”

I squeezed his hand. “Marcus, we’ve done everything we could. We’ve fought this together. I’m not giving up. I’m just… letting go.”

He didn’t say anything to that. He just kissed my forehead, and I felt the weight of everything—his love, his sadness, our little family—press down on me all at once. I held onto him for as long as I could, knowing it would be the last time I’d be able to.

The next few months were a blur. The chemo worked, or at least it kept me going longer than anyone expected. But eventually, the side effects took over, and I could feel the energy draining from my body. I was just trying to make it through another day, another week, another moment. I didn’t know how long I had left, but I held onto the idea that somehow, maybe, I could make it to her second birthday.

As the days passed, Marcus and I had countless late-night conversations about what to do after I was gone. He talked about the things he would need to teach Piper—how to tie her shoes, how to ride a bike, how to laugh when life felt too heavy. He told me he’d make sure she knew how much I loved her. How much I’d always love her.

But there was something he didn’t realize. He didn’t realize how much she was already going to need him. And how much he was going to need her.

I passed my last birthday in a haze of exhaustion. But I woke up the morning of Piper’s second birthday determined to be there. I needed to see her smile. I needed to see Marcus be strong. I needed that one last memory to carry with me wherever I was going.

When I walked into the living room, everything was set up—the balloons, the decorations. It was just like last year, but this time, the room was empty, except for Marcus. He was setting up the cake, just like I had done the year before. But now, his face was different. He didn’t smile as much. His eyes looked tired in a way they hadn’t before.

“Marcus?” I whispered, my voice barely there. “You okay?”

He turned around, and for a moment, I saw it. The weight of the world in his eyes. But then, just like that, he smiled. “I’m okay. You’re here, right?”

I nodded, my heart breaking. But there was something else in that moment—something I hadn’t expected. He wasn’t just pretending for me anymore. He had made peace with what was happening, in his own way. He was stronger now, stronger than I’d ever given him credit for.

The day unfolded quietly. Piper, still too young to understand, tore into her presents with gleeful abandon. She didn’t know why I wasn’t there last year to help her unwrap them, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was here now, and for as long as I could be, I would make sure she knew how loved she was.

As the evening drew to a close, I sat on the couch, Piper nestled in my lap, a tired but happy smile on her face. I looked over at Marcus, who was cleaning up. He caught my eye, and in that moment, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: a spark of hope.

Maybe it was because I knew I had done everything I could to prepare him for this. Maybe it was because I knew, deep down, that he was stronger than I thought. But as I held Piper close, watching her fingers curl around my hand, I felt a sense of peace.

The lesson here is simple: Life is fragile, and we don’t always get the time we think we will. But even when faced with loss, the love we leave behind can carry others through. Don’t wait to show someone how much they mean to you—make every moment count. Even when we think we’re running out of time, we still have the power to make a difference.

If you’ve been touched by this story, please share it with someone you love. Let them know you’re there, no matter how much time you have left. And don’t forget to like this post to remind yourself of the power of love, no matter what life throws your way.