On one trip home, she began having seizures. I called her doctor, and we picked up the carbamazepine. I didn't take her to chemotherapy the following day. “What are you doing? She needs that to get better!” my father huffed. “No, Dad. It's done. Hospice is coming tomorrow,” I said. He didn't talk to me for 2 days. I know he felt that I had taken his hope away, but my mother had made it clear she did not want to go to the hospital again. My dad did not comprehend the odds the oncologist had given him when he said, “She might have a 10% chance of surviving another few months with another round of chemotherapy.” All my dad heard was, “She has a chance.” For 28 years, every kiss had been followed by “I love you.” How could that end?