Page 3 of Second Dance
That caught me off guard. I wasn't sure what she meant. Mattie had asked to be cremated and have her ashes spread in Shakespeare Garden at Golden Gate Park where we'd had our first date.
“You don't need a grave to remember her,” Peter said, not unkindly but with a slight edge. He was a peacemaker, like me, but even Peter could be triggered by his sister.
“She'd love that you're learning to surf,” I said.
Peter brightened. “Do you think so? Because she always told me how afraid of the ocean she was.”
Mattie hadn't learned to swim as a child. When we'd gone to the beach as a family, she'd stayed far away from the tide.
“That's exactly why she'd be delighted,” I said. “She didn't want you guys to be afraid of things like she was.”
“She was super brave,” Bella said, sounding hot. “Why are you saying that?”
“She was brave, but she also had some fears. The way she grew up was not the childhood you two have had,” I said.
“What does that mean? That we're spoiled?” Bella asked.
Okay, this kid was picking fights this morning. All the more reason for me to keep any temper in check. This was her way of lashing out because she was in pain.
“No, I just meant that she didn't have a lot of opportunities,” I said carefully.
Mattie and I had bonded over our childhoods—both raised by single moms who struggled to keep everything afloat. When other kids were having swim lessons, she was helping out at her grandfather's corner store in West Oakland.
“Wearespoiled, Bella,” Peter said. “And really lucky.”
Bella stared him down, her eyes shooting little darts at her big brother. “Mom's dead. I don't think that's lucky.”
With that, she bounded from her stool and headed back upstairs, feet loud on the stairway.
“Sorry, Dad,” Peter said.
Fighting against the lump in my throat, I just nodded, too sad to speak.
After Peter left for his surf lesson, I sat in the kitchen alone, dirty pans and plates washed and put away. I stirred two teaspoons of sugar into my mug of coffee and heard Mattie’s voice in my head, chastising me. “Alex, two, really?” And then she’d laugh and shake her head, knowing there was no saving me from my sweet tooth. All organic and free range for her. Nothing sugary or processed. Ironic, I know. Here I was with my affinity forsweets and frozen dinners—alive and well. And she, resting in peace, while our children and I had to figure out how to keep living without her. The strongest and healthiest of us all … and then she got sick.
She’d battled cancer for two years before we lost her. Brave as anyone could ever be. Never a self-pitying moment, except for one time, near the end, she’d cried about leaving the kids. Knowing she would leave them when they were only twelve and fourteen had broken her heart. Being a good mother to them had been her sole purpose in life.
She’d asked me then, just days before she closed her eyes for the last time. “Do you ever regret taking all three of us on?”
I’d cried when she asked me that, knowing how important it was that I answer truthfully. Knowing that my answer would either give her peace or keep her fighting. However, the truth had always come easily between us. We’d not kept secrets. Not even secret grudges like some couples do. Mattie had taught me how to communicate better and so much else.
Stroking her hand, I’d said slowly and emphatically, “They are mine, Mattie. I am their father. You and the kids have given my life purpose and meaning. I’d not change any of it. Not a moment.”
“You never did complain,” Mattie had said softly. “Not even the time they painted their names on your car.”
I’d laughed, wiping tears from my cheeks. We’d only been married a year when Peter, age six, and Bella, age four, had decided it would be a great idea to mark their territory on my brand new minivan. A van that even two years before would have seemed the most unlikely purchase a bachelor tech guy could have. But I’d embraced my ready-made family like I did most things in my life. I gave them everything I had, heart, mind and soul.
When I met Mattie and the kids, I’d just started my company and didn’t have much to offer them as far as a steady, reliable father goes. I’d had no time for dating or relationships, spending long hours toiling away writing code in the rundown offices I rented with my co-founder. One day, Mattie had arrived from a temp agency, eager but wary, unsure of what to expect from the so-called genius coder. She’d told me later, after we’d fallen in love, that she’d heard rumors about my single-mindedness and drive, and had worried I’d be a difficult boss. Thus, she’d been pleasantly surprised to find that I was just an ordinary guy. I loved baseball and my mother’s authentic Mexican cooking and having a beer with my buddies. I just happened to have a unique gift. One that I wanted desperately to use to make the world better.
Specifically, for sick kids. My little sister, Lena, had died when she was only eight years old from an undetected congenital heart defect. She’d always been small for her age and fragile. Her lips turned faintly blue after chasing me in the yard. Sometimes she’d stop suddenly and clutch her chest as if catching her breath took everything she had. Our mother would tell her to sit down, that she was just “frail.” Doctor visits were rare, reserved for emergencies. Mom had raised us alone, working two jobs to keep us housed and fed. No health insurance.
At eight, Lena collapsed during recess at school. By the time an ambulance rushed her to the nearest hospital, it was too late. The doctors told my mother that she’d been born with a congenital heart defect—a hole in her heart that should have been repaired years earlier. With early detection and surgery, she might have lived a normal life. Instead, she became a statistic.
For me, the guilt and anger never left. The thought that her death wasn’t inevitable. No, it was preventable if only someone had caught it. That truth etched itself into me. It was thereason I obsessed over data, patterns, and missed signals. If one overlooked sign had cost Lena her life, then maybe technology could make sure no other child slipped through the cracks the way she had.
A life cut unbearably short, leaving a hole in the heart of her mother and big brother that could not be seen but was there just the same.
What started as a pediatric health-management tool—a way to track symptoms, medications, and oxygen levels for kids like her—grew into something far bigger. Our platform integrated with hospital systems, insurance databases, even wearable tech, and used predictive algorithms to flag dangerous trends before they spiraled into emergencies. Within five years, nearly every major children’s hospital in the country had adopted it. Within ten, it was a standard in healthcare systems worldwide. The sale had made me a billionaire. Which still didn’t seem entirely real. Anyway, what made me proudest was the hard work of my team. It was more mission than work. We’d helped children live longer, fuller lives. A life Lena never had.
