Doctors told us my husband had five to twelve months left.

They delivered it calmly. Clinical. Final.

“It’s aggressive,” Dr. Patel said.

Thomas squeezed my hand and tried to smile. “Guess I’m on a deadline now.”

We have seven daughters.

Overnight, our world became chemo schedules, bloodwork, and red circles on the calendar. But Thomas had one stubborn wish:

“I want to walk them all down the aisle.”

Emily, our oldest, was getting married. He might only make it to one wedding. That truth sat between us like something fragile.

When his strength began fading faster, I realized waiting wasn’t a strategy. So I called the girls together.

“Your dad may only get one wedding,” I told them. “So we’re going to give him all seven.”

The plan was simple. During Emily’s ceremony, halfway down the aisle, the music would stop. Then—one by one—each sister, dressed in white, would step forward. Just a few steps. A hand on his arm. A kiss. A whispered I love you.

On the wedding day, Thomas could barely stand. But he insisted.

“Just one step,” he said.

Emily took his arm, and they started down the aisle.

Halfway through, the music cut out.

Thomas froze.

For a heartbeat, I thought he was collapsing.

But he wasn’t.

He was staring ahead.

Six daughters stood in a line, all in wedding dresses.

Grace. Lily. Hannah. Nora. Paige. Sophie.

Gasps filled the church.

The pianist began playing softly again.

Emily whispered, “It’s for you.”

Thomas’s voice broke. “All of them?”

“All of us.”

One by one, they stepped forward. He walked each girl a few steps. Kissed each forehead. Held each hand like he was memorizing it.

By the time Sophie—our youngest—reached him, he was openly crying.

“You’re real,” he told her when she apologized that it wasn’t her real wedding.

Then he finished the aisle with Emily.

The ceremony went on. Vows. Rings. Applause.

At the reception, he managed one slow dance with me.

“I thought cancer stole it,” he whispered.

“Not today,” I said.

That night, back home, the girls sat on the floor in their gowns, laughing too loudly because silence was too heavy.

“Can we make more memories?” Sophie asked.

Emily pulled out her phone. “We make a list.”

“No wasting good days,” Paige added.

“Dad gets veto power,” Nora said.

For the first time since the diagnosis, I didn’t feel helpless.

Not hopeful.

Not in denial.

But steady.

We couldn’t control how much time we had.

But we could decide what to do with it.