Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~7 min read
JAX – AGE 79
I’m dying.
Not immediately. But soon.
Cancer. Stage four. Too far gone.
The doctors give me six months. Maybe a year.
I don’t tell Summer right away.
I need time to process.
But eventually, I have to.
“Summer. We need to talk.”
SUMMER – THE DIAGNOSIS
When Jax tells me, my world stops.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How long?”
“Six months to a year.”
I can’t breathe.
“You can’t leave me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then fight it.”
“Summer, it’s stage four. There’s no fighting this.”
“There’s always fighting.”
But I know.
Deep down, I know.
This is it.
JAX – TELLING THE KIDS
Phoenix and Atlas take it hard.
“Dad, no,” Phoenix cries.
“I’m sorry, mija.”
“You can’t… we need you.”
“You don’t. You’re strong. Both of you.”
Atlas is quiet. Crying silently.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I’m not ready.”
“I know. But we don’t get to choose.”
We hug. All three of us.
My kids. My legacy.
I’m so proud.
SUMMER – DENIAL PHASE
I research treatments. Clinical trials. Miracles.
“Summer,” Jax says gently. “Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. This is happening.”
“I don’t want it to.”
“Me either. But we don’t get to choose.”
“I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t. I’ll always be with you.”
“That’s not the same.”
“I know.”
I cry in his arms.
For hours.
JAX – BUCKET LIST
I make a list.
Things I want to do before I go.
- See all the grandkids graduate (won’t happen, but I’ll see some)
- Renew vows one more time
- Finish my art portfolio
- Write letters to everyone I love
- Make peace with death
Summer helps me.
“What can I do?” she asks.
“Just be here. That’s enough.”
SUMMER – MAKING MEMORIES
We do everything. Quickly.
Trip to Costa Rica. Our place.
Family dinners. Weekly.
Date nights. Even though Jax is weak.
“I want to remember this,” I tell him.
“Me too.”
We take photos. Videos. Recordings.
Preserving him. Us.
For after.
PHOENIX – WATCHING THEM
Mom and Dad are inseparable now.
Every moment counts.
“How are you holding up?” I ask Mom.
“I’m not. But I’m trying.”
“Dad’s lucky. To have you.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“You both are.”
She smiles. Sad.
“Fifty-four years. It’s not enough.”
“It never would be.”
“No. I suppose not.”
JAX – WRITING LETTERS
I write to everyone.
Phoenix. Atlas. The grandkids. Marco. Rose. Melody.
And Summer.
Hers is the longest.
My love,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And I’m sorry.
Sorry for leaving you. Sorry for not getting more time.
But I’m not sorry for loving you. For choosing you. For building this life.
You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Even with the messy beginning.
Thank you for changing. For being honest. For choosing me back.
Live fully. Love again if you want. Don’t spend the rest of your life grieving.
I’ll be watching. Proud. Always.
Yours forever, Jax
I seal it. Give it to Phoenix.
“When I’m gone. Give this to your mother.”
“Dad—”
“Promise me.”
She cries.
“I promise.”
SUMMER – MONTH FIVE
Jax is getting weaker.
Hospice at home. We’re not doing hospital.
He wants to be here. In our house. Our bed.
I barely leave his side.
“Summer, you need to rest,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I smile.
“You taught me well.”
“Too well.”
The grandkids visit. Say goodbye.
Ruby holds his hand. “Grandpa, thank you. For everything.”
“Thank you, mija. For being you.”
Liam cries. “I love you.”
“I love you too, buddy. So much.”
Little Jax, now seventeen, just hugs him. Can’t speak.
It’s heartbreaking.
JAX – FINAL DAYS
I’m ready.
As ready as anyone can be.
I’ve said my goodbyes. Written my letters. Made peace.
“Summer?” I call.
She’s there immediately.
“I’m here.”
“Lie with me.”
She does. Carefully.
We’ve done this a million times.
But this feels different.
Final.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.”
“Thank you. For fifty-four years.”
“Thank you for forgiving me. For building this with me.”
“It was worth it. All of it.”
“It was.”
We hold hands.
Old hands. Wrinkled. Beautiful.
“Don’t be alone too long,” I say.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good.”
I close my eyes.
Summer’s next to me.
Where she’s always been.
For fifty-four years.
And I’m at peace.
SUMMER – THE MOMENT
I feel it.
The shift.
Jax’s breathing changes. Slows.
“Jax?” I whisper.
No response.
“Baby, please.”
Nothing.
I call Phoenix.
She comes running.
Checks his pulse.
Looks at me. Tears streaming.
“He’s gone, Mom.”
No.
No, no, no.
I cradle him. Sob.
“You weren’t supposed to leave me.”
But he has.
My husband. My partner. My best friend.
Gone.
PHOENIX – HELPING MOM
She’s destroyed.
Completely broken.
We make arrangements. Funeral. Service. Everything.
Mom goes through the motions.
Numb.
At the funeral, hundreds show up.
Family. Friends. Clients. People whose lives Jax touched.
Mom gives the eulogy.
“Jaxon Torres was my husband for fifty years. My partner for fifty-four.”
“He forgave me when I didn’t deserve it. Loved me when I couldn’t love myself.”
“He taught me honesty. Redemption. Second chances.”
“And now he’s gone. And I don’t know how to exist without him.”
She’s crying. Everyone’s crying.
“But I’ll try. Because that’s what he’d want. For me to live. Fully. Honestly.”
“I love you, Jax. Forever.”
PHOENIX – THE LETTER
I give Mom the letter Dad wrote.
She opens it. Reads.
Sobs.
“He knew me so well.”
“He did.”
“How do I do this without him?”
“One day at a time.”
“It hurts so much.”
“I know, Mom. We all do.”
SUMMER – ONE MONTH AFTER
The house is so quiet.
Too quiet.
I keep expecting Jax to appear. Make a joke. Hold me.
But he doesn’t.
Because he’s gone.
Rose visits daily.
“You need to eat,” she says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Summer—”
“I know. I will. Just… not yet.”
She hugs me.
And I cry.
Again.
SUMMER – THREE MONTHS AFTER
Grief is a process.
Everyone says that.
But they don’t tell you how exhausting it is.
I go to therapy. Grief counseling.
“It’s okay to feel this,” Dr. Morrison says.
“It doesn’t feel okay.”
“But it is. You loved him deeply. The grief matches that love.”
“When does it get easier?”
“It doesn’t. It gets different.”
Not comforting.
But true.
SUMMER – SIX MONTHS AFTER
I’m functioning.
Sort of.
Back to the foundation. Part-time.
Seeing the grandkids. Weekly.
Living. Barely.
But living.
Phoenix notices.
“You’re doing better.”
“Am I?”
“Better than three months ago.”
“I suppose.”
“Dad would be proud.”
Tears well up.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
SUMMER – ONE YEAR AFTER
The first anniversary of his death.
It’s brutal.
I visit his grave. Bring flowers.
“Hi, baby. I miss you.”
I tell him everything. The grandkids. The foundation. Life.
“Ruby got into Harvard. Atlas opened a gallery in Paris. Phoenix is changing the world.”
“You’d be so proud.”
“I’m trying to live like you wanted. Fully. But it’s hard without you.”
“I love you. Still. Always.”
I sit there for hours.
Until Phoenix comes to bring me home.
PHOENIX – WATCHING MOM HEAL
It’s slow.
But she’s healing.
Laughing again. Sometimes.
Engaged with life.
Not the same. Never the same.
But alive.
And that’s enough.
For now.
SUMMER – FIFTY-FIVE YEARS POST-EXPLOSION
I’m seventy-three.
Jax has been gone a year.
It still hurts.
But differently.
Less sharp. More ache.
I’m learning to live without him.
Not because I want to.
But because I have to.
Because he’d want me to.
And I promised.
So I keep going.
One day at a time.
Carrying his love with me.
Forever.
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