Her strength was louder than her diagnosis, but the fear was, too. She smiled for the cameras, for the updates, for the strangers who called her “inspiring,” while privately bargaining with the dark at 3 a.m. Every victory post hid a quiet, trembling question: “Will I be here next year?” She became a symbol, a rallying cry, a movement—yet at home she was simply trying to make it to the next school play, the next birthday candle, the next ordinary Tuesday. Between chemo chairs and hospital corridors, she stitched hope into lunchbox notes, bedtime hugs, and whispered prayers no one else heard. She carried everyone else’s expectations while quietly wondering who would carry her children if the worst came tr… Continues…
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