For thirty-two years, my husband Frank and I saved for one dream.
A Mediterranean cruise.
It was supposed to be our reward for everything we had sacrificed together.
Every anniversary, we added another $100 to an old blue cookie tin that sat in the back of our kitchen cabinet.
Frank had written three words across the lid:
Our Big Adventure.
It was nothing fancy.
Just a dented blue tin.
But to us, it represented something much bigger.
It represented the promise that one day, after all the bills were paid and the family emergencies were over, we would finally do something just for ourselves.
Every year, however, life seemed to have another plan.
First, the furnace broke.
Then our son Daniel needed money for college tuition.
Then my mother needed expensive care at a nursing home.
And then Frank needed heart surgery.
Each time, we opened the tin.
Each time, another piece of our dream disappeared.
Frank would tape the lid shut again and smile at me.
“We’ll go next year.”
There was always supposed to be a next year.
But nine months before our long-delayed departure, doctors discovered something that changed everything.
