April

 April is a strange time in our household. Life carries on as it always doe, school runs, meals, laughter, the everyday rhythm we’ve rebuilt but underneath it all, we remember.

It’s been three years since Zack’s brain tumour diagnosis.

In many ways, life is different. In many ways, it looks the same. But everything has shifted—the pace we move at, the direction we take, the way we measure time. These days, time isn’t counted in months or seasons, but in scans. Three months at a time. Waiting, watching, wondering.

We live in the in-between. The space where every small change can feel significant. A headache, a quiet day, a moment that feels just slightly “off” and the questions begin: Is he okay? Is something different? That quiet vigilance never really leaves. The fear of the tumour returning sits in the background, a constant undercurrent to even the brightest days.

And yet, here we are.

Tomorrow, we’ll receive the results of his latest scan. It’s been a full year since Zack finished chemotherapy a milestone that once felt impossibly far away. Now it’s here, bringing with it both pride and apprehension.

Because Zack is thriving.

His hair has grown back, softer and curlier and gingerer (if that's a word) than before, a visible reminder of how far he’s come. He is brave in ways no child should have to be, resilient beyond words, and stronger than we ever imagined.

He laughs, he grows, he lives.

And still, there’s that quiet “what if.”

It doesn’t disappear, no matter how much time passes or how good things look on the surface. It weaves itself into the fabric of our lives less sharp than before, perhaps, but always there. A reminder of what we’ve been through, and what we carry forward.

So April remains a month of reflection. Of holding two truths at once: gratitude for how far we’ve come, and fear of what we cannot control.

We carry on