Hailey turned 16 in January of 2022 and got her learner’s permit that very same day. She was so excited to finally be driving. In April, she landed her first job at a local supermarket. She was gaining independence and stepping confidently into young adulthood. That summer was full of adventures. She went on several trips with family and friends, saw one of her favorite artists in concert, and earned her driver’s license. I used to joke that she was truly living her best life. Hailey had a zest for life and never wanted to miss an opportunity to have fun. She loved to laugh, was incredibly quickwitted, and was always cracking jokes—she was genuinely funny. Her bright smile and face full of freckles were part of what made her so special, and she embraced every bit of it. When school started that fall, she met the challenge head-on. She was doing well academically, still working at the supermarket, and playing high school field hockey for a nationally ranked team with numerous state and district championships. Her schedule was demanding, but she still found time for herself and for her friends. In November, she came home from practice complaining about a pain near her left ribs. I asked if she had been hit during a game or maybe twisted wrong—she trained hard, and it wasn’t unusual for athletes to get banged up. But after a few days, the pain was worsening, and she was having trouble even lying down at night. We went to urgent care on a Sunday, and after an X-ray showed nothing, they assumed it was a sports injury and told her to take it easy. But it didn’t get better. On November 9th, we went to the children’s ER. They ran blood work, and while we waited, Hailey and I talked and joked around like we always did. When the doctor finally came in, she spoke quietly and slowly. I don’t remember most of what she said—just the words “cancer is in the blood.” It hit me all at once. She was telling me Hailey might have cancer. I felt my stomach drop and panic rush through my body. This couldn’t be real. She was healthy, strong, in the best shape of her life. Surely it was a mistake. They admitted her immediately, and after further testing, our worst fear was confirmed: Acute Myeloid Leukemia—AML with FLT3. We were devastated. She was devastated. We were told treatment would last six to nine months, and each round of chemo would require her to stay inpatient for at least 30 days. She would miss the rest of her junior year and the end of her field hockey season. It felt like a nightmare we couldn’t wake up from. Treatment started rough—frequent nosebleeds, nausea, and exhaustion. But like everything else in her life, she faced it headon. She was tough, and throughout treatment, she stayed funny, witty, and full of light. Even when she lost her hair, she made jokes about it. She was given a wig but never wore it; being bald didn’t bother her, and she was still adorable. I was able to work from the hospital, so each month when she was admitted, I moved in with her. We passed the time walking the halls, playing card games—her favorite—doing crafts, watching TV, and listening to music. As the months went on, she continued to do well. Her counts recovered quickly, and she was able to go home between treatments. She even made it home the day before her 17th birthday. Her fourth round of chemo began in March 2023. This time, her counts took much longer to recover. With each passing day, I grew more worried. In previous months, she had recovered before the 30-day mark. Then in May, she developed a fungal infection in her lungs and was transferred to the PICU. With no immune system, it was extremely serious. She was placed on antibiotics and breathing treatments. Watching her sleep most of the time, so weak, was heartbreaking. I was terrified. I prayed every day for even a small improvement—just enough of her immune system returning to help her fight the infection. On the morning of June 25th, 2023, with her mom and dad by her side, our beautiful, kind, sweet girl became an angel. Our world is not the same, and it never will be.