My wife, Alma, died of ovarian cancer after two years of fighting with unwavering kindness. My sister, Sarah, offered no support—not a visit, call, or meal. At Alma’s wake, while I was numb with grief, Sarah asked for her scarves and jewelry, shrugging like it was practical. I shut her down, but weeks later, she showed up with boxes, pushing to “sort” Alma’s things, claiming it would help me move on. Furious, I called her out for her absence and sent her away.

Grief stretched time, but I donated Alma’s clothes to her favorite shelter and kept her scarves and jewelry safe. A nurse, Noor, gave me a letter Alma had left, urging me not to give Sarah anything but to sell a silver bracelet for something joyful. I laughed, remembering Alma’s humor.

Instead of selling the bracelet, I bought a beat-up boat, fixed it up, and named it The Alma Jean. I took it out on weekends, finding peace. I mentored Rami, a 13-year-old who’d lost his dad, sharing Alma’s spirit on the water. Sarah later wrote, wanting to reconnect, but I didn’t respond. Alma’s final gift taught me to choose joy and generosity, sharing her light with others while keeping her memory close.