Picking up the Pieces

Prologue

This is dedicated to my best friend who recently lost her husband. She's a beautiful woman who doesn't deserve the hand she was dealt. I love you, Pam...

Not mine...I'm not Stephenie Meyer. I wish I was. Dang it. But, oh well...

Summary: Isabella Black lost her husband in the cruelest way possible. He wasted away and was ravaged by the evil, silent killer, cancer. Five months after his initial diagnosis, he died, leaving Bella with their two young children, John, seven and Grace, five. A year after his death, Bella packs up her home in Phoenix and drives back to Forks, Washington to be closer to her family. Will she finally find a way to pick up the pieces with the help of her family, friends and a green-eyed cop?

Picking up the Pieces

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Black. The tests indicate that you have stage IV pancreatic cancer," the doctor said coldly, not offering much hope. He almost seemed bored with what he was saying. Asshole.

"How can that be?" Jacob asked, shocked at the diagnosis. He had been feeling off for about a year, but we thought it was just exhaustion. Jacob had started a new job as an independent contractor. He had a lot more responsibilities and it was weighing on him. "Cancer?"

"Stage IV pancreatic cancer," the doctor corrected.

"Yes, we get that," I snapped. "What can be done? Are there any treatments? Options, Doctor. What are our options?"

"Mrs. Black, Mr. Black, I'm going to be honest with you," the doctor, who obviously didn't care about us, continued. "You have one of the deadliest forms of cancer there is. It's spread from the pancreas to the liver, spleen and bones. You can try to attack it with chemotherapy, but it would just make your remaining time with your family be uncomfortable."

"So, this is a fucking death sentence," Jacob growled. "I'm as good as dead."

"Jake," I whimpered, twining my fingers through his large, warm hands. I drew in a breath, looking at my least favorite person in the world: the asshole that doesn't care that he's taking my husband away from me. "Prognosis. What's the prognosis?"

"Less than six months, if you're lucky."

I couldn't tell you anything else the asshole doctor said after that. Less than six months, if you're lucky. Shit, those words were my worst nightmare. I only had six months left with my husband. He only had six months left with our babies: John and Grace. By the end of the year, I'd be a fucking widow ...

Less than six months, if you're lucky.

It's not fair. Why? Why did God do this to us?

Suffice it to say, we weren't lucky. Five months after that initial appointment with Dr. Dickwad, Jake was placed in hospice. Mysix foot five, muscular husband was now a shadow of the man I married. He lost nearly a hundred pounds and was a skeleton. His russet skin was gray and hung limply over his pronounced bones. His once rich, black hair was gone thanks to thechemotherapy we tried, fruitlessly, to stop the progression of the aggressive form of cancer. My soul mate was dying, with one foot in the grave.

What made things even sadder were the expressions on our children's faces. They were so confused why Daddy didn't live with us anymore and he stayed at the hospital. John, our oldest, kind of understood Jake was sick but I don't think he realized how sick his dad really was. Grace just missed her overgrown playmate and hero of a man who would act like her horsey or be her prince charming or share imaginary tea while wearing feathery, floppy hats and pink lip gloss.