We found out sometime in late August/ early September that he had been diagnosed with what we’d come to learn was a pretty aggressive cancer. We didn’t know much and information was coming to us very slowly until it wasn’t. October 5? Em got a phone call from her dad and she instantly knew something was wrong. She could hear the beeping from the hospital in the background. He assured her everything was okay but that he was being admitted to the ICU and her mom would call with more information later. Em’s world, much like mine in 2020 was turned upside down. We didn’t have much context for what was happening and we had no idea how much time we’d have to get back home to Texas. I knew the regret I carried not being with my own dad as he passed and I didn’t want Em carrying that, so that night I packed Em’s bag and booked her a flight first thing the next morning.  I won’t give the play by play but her dad was in the ICU for two weeks. She and her mom rotated shifts so one could go home to eat, shower and rest while the other stayed with her dad. It was like this for two weeks. I stayed back to take care of the furbabies and the house until I got the call and Em told me she needed me to get on a plane.  We didn’t know how much time we’d have, but I got there as fast as possible. I got to visit with Em and her dad. We laughed and joked just like we used to. He and I always gave each other a hard time and laughed about it. We were there day in and day out until the end. It was 3 am on October 20 that Em got the call that he had passed. Luckily, we were still in her hometown, and we could go straight over to the facility he’d been moved to. I’m not sure there’s a silver lining to this story. Maybe just that we got to spend as much time as possible and Em got to help her dad transition from this life to the next. Maybe just that being able to connect with Em’s dad and help him transition, I quelled some of my regrets by not being at my own dad’s beside. Maybe there’s no silver lining at all. Grief doesn’t follow any predictable course. The hardest part isn’t just the loss itself but how it unravels everything. You try so hard to rebuild, to feel grounded again, only to be uprooted once more. It’s not just a repeat of sorrow; it’s an accumulation, and each new loss carries the weight of all the griefs that came before it. It feels relentless, like life is constantly testing how much one heart can endure.