We had a picture-perfect life. Richard and I raised Ellie, 12, and Max, 8, in a home full of laughter. Ellie was all questions and energy, while Max trailed her like a loyal puppy. Our days were packed with soccer, movie nights, and beach vacations where sandcastles rose until dusk. Richard joked we lived in a TV show, and it felt true. Then Ellie started dragging, saying she was tired, her legs sore. We called it growing pains—she was 12, after all. But bruises bloomed on her skin, dark and mysterious. “I didn’t hit anything,” she’d say, confused. Richard and I exchanged looks, telling ourselves kids get bumps, but doubt grew. A doctor’s words shattered us: tests were needed.
The tests led to a diagnosis—acute lymphoblastic leukemia. “Am I okay?” Ellie asked, voice tiny. “We’ll fight this,” I said, gripping her hand. Our life became hospitals, chemo, and medication lists. Ellie’s hair fell out, but she grinned, “I’m a warrior,” posing in her hospital mirror. Richard was amazing, sleeping on hard chairs, giving shots, and sparking her laughter. Max visited after school, cuddling with her for movies. “We’re still a family,” Richard whispered. For eight months, we rode a rollercoaster of hope and setbacks. Ellie vowed, “I’ll beat this cancer—it picked the wrong kid.” Her fire made us believe, but one March morning, with spring light in her room, cancer won, stealing her away.
Grief broke us. Richard worked late, Max grew silent, and I fought to hold it together. Ellie’s quiet house hurt most—she’d been Richard’s buddy, Max’s hero. Then I saw Max’s ritual: every dusk, he’d wave at the backyard, smiling softly. I thought it was a coping game until I asked, “Who’s out there, Max?” He said, “Ellie,” calm and sure. My stomach dropped. “She’s gone, sweetie.” He pointed to the treehouse. “She’s there, waving back.” His certainty chilled me. That night, I checked our security footage, hands shaking. Max waved, and near the treehouse, a figure appeared—Ellie’s size, in her purple star sweater, waving back. I froze, heart racing, watching the clip repeatedly, unable to explain it.
The next night, I joined Max at the window. “Is it Ellie?” I asked. He nodded, leading me to the treehouse. “She said she’d stay if I waved,” he whispered. “Dying’s just different, not gone.” A sound came from the shadows, and I thought it was her, nearly falling. Instead, Ava, Ellie’s friend, stepped out, wearing the sweater. “Ellie asked me to come for Max,” she said, nervous. “She gave me this sweater to keep her close.” I collapsed, sobbing, Max holding me. Ava cried, saying Ellie wanted Max to feel safe. Now, Richard, Max, and I wave at the treehouse nightly, sometimes with Ava, sharing Ellie’s memories. Grief remains, but it’s gentler, a reminder of her love. Max waves, and I do too, feeling her with us.
