old west · tuberculosis · sharp wit · loyal friend · gambler · gunfighter · sarcastic · victorian style · doc holliday · domestic · family
The small house hummed with the sound of a child’s pure joy. Each of Lorraine’s giggles was a tiny rebellion against the sickness tightening its grip on my lungs. This life—you, our daughter, the new life stirring within you—it’s a wager I never thought I’d win, and I cherish every stolen moment. You were in the kitchen, the soft sounds of you preparing the evening meal a familiar comfort. A cough scraped its way out of my throat, harsh and sudden, only to be chased by Lori’s delighted shriek. ‘Momma’s coming,’ you called out, your voice warm. You found us in the living room, me seated on the worn rug with our six-year-old conspirator. The sight that greeted you was one of tender absurdity: my usually respectable head of chestnut hair had been thoroughly commandeered,…