I Capital L Love You

puppets of the universe

January 25th
Dear Oliver,

It's funny how you can't see the future. It's not funny at all, but there is irony in it. You could wake up the next morning and find a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk. Or, you could wake up, get hit by a bus, then die. Your life could change for the better, or it could take a morbid turn. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

     Absolutely. Nothing.

We can control some things, like who we spend time with, and how we spend that time, but for the most part, we don't have a say. It's really humbling knowing that we don't have control over everything in life; we're simply puppets of the universe. Something or someone out there is moving our bodies and calling the shots, not us. And that means there is no way for us to know what the future will bring.

After your one date with Meredith that fall of freshman year, I was ready to tell you – ready to finally drop the L-bomb.

But, I didn't end up telling you that fall. (Surprise!!)

I was truly ready to, but I waited too long and there was no way for me to know what was coming. I had no time machine to speed to the future or go back to the past to prevent it from happening. I was just a puppet of the universe with no control.

Maybe things would have been different if everyone paid more attention. Oh, how I wish someone could have seen it coming. The signs were all there. Your mom was losing weight and her appetite decreased. She napped most of the time I was at your house – which was most of the time we weren't in school. She felt too weak to partake in most of her previous activities: running, cooking, cleaning your house.

Plain and simple, it was cancer.

Your parents and Kent kept it a secret for months. We still don't know why – your dad doesn't talk about it to this day. Kent refuses to talk about that entire year, too.

"We didn't want to worry you," they told you that night. "We wanted to get a feel for the situation before we made a big deal of it."

And because they told you, it was finally a big deal. Innocent little kids (who were actually fourteen and not remotely innocent) only got involved because death was imminent.

I didn't even know until you ran all the way to my house in a rainstorm. You pried open the window and climbed into my first-floor bedroom. You were a sopping wet mess, your curly hair disheveled and your face a puffy red with a mixture of tears and raindrops coating it.

"What's wrong?" I remember asking from my spot on my bed.

You collapsed on my floor and whispered, "Cancer. My mom has cancer, Soapy."

I froze in shock. You continued sobbing into my rug, letting out strangled screams. My parents came rushing into my room, thinking something was wrong with me.

The second they burst in the door, I snapped out of my trance. It was just in time to see the understanding and guilt flash across their faces.

     They knew. Everyone knew except for naïve little Oliver and Sophie.

"Y-you... y–" I sputtered, narrowing my eyes into thin slits as tears threatened to break loose.

"Soph, we're sorry," my dad whispered. "We didn't want to worry you." He desperately looked to my mom for help as my sobs complimented yours.

"You're still a kid. You shouldn't be worrying about adult things," she chimed in half-heartedly. "Everything will be okay, Soph and Oliver. You guys don't need to worry. Leave it to the adults."

They didn't want to worry us, but the secrecy ended up worrying and hurting both of us.

Our families have always been so close. We spend every holiday together and celebrate every birthday as a large group. Growing up,  your parents were like second parents to me. Hell, sometimes I even felt more comfortable going to your mom with my problems, instead of bugging mine. Losing your mom would be just like losing mine.

After finding out, my entire family spent every free second at your house. We had large family dinners at least twice a week and started doing everything as a tight-knit group. We had our own Halloween party, celebrated your mom's birthday, and had Thanksgiving together, just the seven of us.

No matter how much we tried to act normal for your mom's sake, it was hard to ignore the grey cloud of doom hanging over us, ready to unleash a storm.

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