text: The phone rang late one night. She choked on her tears; didn't yell or scream. Her two children slept upstairs; innocent; dreaming. She gave them one last peaceful night. They'd have heartache their entire lives. She gave them one last peaceful night. One last peaceful night to dream innocently. Before her children stirred, she went to their room and sat down on the chair between their beds. Her husband sat in it two nights earlier as he read them bedtime stories. She struggled in desperation, wondering how to tell them about their father. Then they woke up. And she told them. And she stayed strong for her boys. She had to be stronger now that their Dad was gone. And she held them tight and kept her tears inside. When the phone calls from loved ones stopped coming and the news reporters left and her kids wept and slept restlessly upstairs, she was sitting alone on the couch. And she cried all the tears she held in that day. She wondered what life her children would have. She wondered what life she would have. She wondered why this had to happen to her family. Why did it have to happen to her? Years later, the widowed mother found love again. She married and her husband took the kids under his wing. He didn't always treat them perfect, but he cared about them and cared for them and was there for them when they had questions that only a father could answer. She didnt have to do it all by herself anymore. No more lonesome struggle. She didnt have to cry alone. She had a shoulder to lean on and he had a big heart and she was at it's center. And the tragedies of yesterday gave way to a beautiful future. The kids were in their teens. Their friends were always over and they were always welcome. She treated them with love and care, the kind of love and care only good parents can give. She talked to them when they seemed down and fed them when they were hungry and gave them a place to sleep if they needed it. She was like a Mom to her kids' friends. Those neighborhood kids appreciated it more and more each year they got older. When they were young, they didn't know how lucky they were to have someone like that in their life. As they grew older and saw more of the world and met more people, they realized how special and rare it was for someone to treat them the way she had. And they were thankful. Then the kids were grown up and they visited less and less and their friends didn't stop by as much and for the first time in 20 years, her house was quiet. And even though she missed her sons more than anything and missed some of their friends enough to think of them, she enjoyed the quiet. A woman who loves her children as much as she loves hers is deprived of peaceful sleep when they live so far away. But a woman who loves her children as much as she does supports whatever decisions they make and whatever dreams they choose to chase as long as they're pursuit is good and honest and worthwhile. She supported her sons and their dreams wholeheartedly. And her whole heart hurt because she was so far from her kids. Her younger son lived, and was a cook at, a spiritual community nestled somewhere in the mountains of northern California. Her older son studied audio/visual production in Rhode Island. He graduated and moved to New Jersey for a media job he scored in New York City. She helped her older son move to his apartment in New Jersey. He didnt talk to her much after he moved. He had a busy life: New job and a new apartment in a new state. For a kid who grew up in small town Massachusetts, a job in New York City was a big deal. She was proud of him. He was a good kid doing good things. She was only as worried about him as any good mother would be. Then she got the call that no good mother should get. The living have to carry on; they won't ever forget. His family and friends carried his casket to the altar. He wasn't catholic, but his mother was and this was the way she chose things to be. She deserved that choice. And after the proceedings, her son's friends came to her home like they did when they were teenagers. Everyone had heavy hearts, but they were bearing them together. They laughed and cried and told stories and cried more and some drank to calm their nerves. And then the services, wakes, and burial were over and she spent alot of time with her younger son who'd returned from California. Then he flew back. And she spent most of her time with her husband. He tried his best to comfort and support her. She still couldn't believe her son was gone. Her son died three years ago. On the anniversary of his passing, a few of his friends, her, and her husband go out to breakfast, then visit him at the cemetery. They leave flowers and shed tears and tell stories and smile. They remember him. She still sees her son everywhere she looks. She swears he reaches out to her. She sees owls too often to be coincidental and it all started after he passed away. She saw the first one after the wake. It landed on their mailbox and raised its wing like it was waving, then turned its head, and flew off into the night. She's visited psychic mediums, hoping her son will reach out. She got a message once at a show in Worcester, but it wasn't from the medium. She sat down for the show and turned around and saw one of her son's friends there, sitting behind her. Of all the shows and all the different seats at that show, her son's friend was at that show and happened to sit behind her. That was a message. It gave some comfort. Some things are too coincidental to be coincidence. Three years of mourning. Three years replaying beautiful memories over and over again in her head. It would never be easy, but it could be better. She wished she did things differently. She wished she tried harder. She wished she asked a question she never would've thought to ask her son in the first place. And she realized, from time to time, that it wasn't her fault. It was tragedy. Another tragedy. Another loved one lost. Another pain to bear. But she will never break. She's had to be strong before and she is strong now. She's strong because she has to be: She's been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. She doesnt give up. She's fighting. And she will pull through. She's experienced tragedies that would break a person. She carrys on. She fights. She survives. She keeps going. Never stops. Her strength is inspiring. It's true and real and honest. This is a true story. The story of a strong, caring woman subjected to tragic events who chose to live outside, but in sight of, their shadow. Me? I'm one of her son's friends; one of the ones who goes to breakfast every year and visits him. The one at the psychic show. The one with a drink to calm his nerves. I heard the news about her diagnosis and I wondered how life could be so cruel. How could all that happen to someone so kind and caring? I dont know. It shouldn't. But it has. In writing this, I've realized something profound: No person becomes as strong as she is without facing extreme difficulty. And in writing this, I've changed the way I see her story. I don't see her as a victim of life and its cruelty. I see her as an indomitable survivor. She never gives up. We'd all be better people if we were as strong as her. I hope you'll think for her. Think true. Focus. Please. Then keep reading. She's going to survive. She's always found fortune in life, love, and happiness, even after tragedy and challenge. She is an inspiration.