Our family was a happy one. Richard and I cherished Ellie, 12, and Max, 8, in a home alive with love. Ellie’s curiosity filled our days, while Max adored her, always close. We had soccer weekends, cozy movie nights, and beach trips where the kids crafted sandcastles. Richard said it was like a sitcom, and it was. Then Ellie grew tired, her legs aching. We thought it was her age, but bruises appeared on her skin, unexplained. “I didn’t fall,” she’d say, confused. Richard and I tried to stay calm—kids bruise, right? But a doctor’s visit changed everything, leading to tests that confirmed our worst fear: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
“Will I be okay?” Ellie asked, scared. “We’ll beat this,” I promised. Our life shifted to hospital rooms, chemo, and endless appointments. Ellie’s hair fell out, but she called herself a warrior, striking poses. Richard was her strength, sleeping in hospital chairs and making her smile. Max visited daily, watching movies with her in bed. “We’re still us,” Richard said. For eight months, we held onto hope, celebrating Ellie’s good days, enduring the bad. “Cancer messed with the wrong girl,” she’d say, fierce. But one March morning, with sunlight soft, she lost her fight, leaving us shattered. Grief tore us apart. Richard worked late, Max withdrew, and I struggled to keep going. Ellie’s silence in our home broke my heart.
Then Max started something strange. Every evening, he’d wave at the backyard, a quiet smile on his face. I thought it was a kid’s way to cope until I asked, “Who’re you waving to?” He said, “Ellie,” certain. My chest tightened. “She’s not here, Max.” He pointed to the treehouse. “She waves back.” His words chilled me. That night, I checked our security footage, my hands unsteady. Max waved, and near the treehouse, a figure moved—Ellie’s build, in her purple sweater, waving back. I gasped, watching the clip over and over, my mind racing. Was it real? The next evening, I sat with Max. “Is it her?” I asked. He led me to the treehouse, saying, “She promised to stay if I waved. Dying’s just different.” A rustle came, and I thought it was Ellie, my knees weak. Instead, Ava, her friend, appeared, in the sweater.
“Ellie asked me to come for Max,” Ava said, shy. “She gave me this to remember her.” I sank to the grass, sobbing, Max hugging me. Ava cried, saying Ellie worried for Max’s heart. Now, Richard, Max, and I wave at the treehouse every night, sometimes with Ava, telling Ellie’s stories. Grief lingers, but it’s softer, like holding her love close. Max waves, and so do I, knowing she’s with us, different but here.
