I will never forget the day I found out I was going to become a mother. My feelings were a mixture of joy, elation and shock mixed with a little bit of apprehension. Knowing I wanted this baby more than anything in my life, but worried that somehow I would lack the parenting skills I needed to raise a child and not turn them into a raving, paranoid lunatic. I also knew I had a partner in crime--my husband. It took two to get us here, and I knew he would love this baby just as much as I did and try just as hard as I would to raise a happy, healthy, intelligent child, without imposing too many of our own shortcomings as this child grew.

Lauren was born and fulfilled all of our dreams of what having a baby would be like. She was this perfect, pink, bald-headed bundle of sweetness. She made it so easy that Jeff and I thought we must amazing parents and could not understand all these parents who complained about the difficulties of parenthood. Here was our first mistake--first, we only had one child, and second Lauren was an easy baby. No colic, slept through the night at six weeks, napped, cooed, ate well, no serious illnesses...we were blessed.

Ashtyn was born 2 years and 11 months after Lauren. Ashtyn was definitely a different baby. She was due the second week of August, she finally arrived by C-section on September 5, when I was into my 43rd week and I finally gave up the idea of natural childbirth. She had this amazing shock of jet black hair and when the doctor brought her out the doctor and the ER staff was giggling. I had given birth to a toddler--10 pounds, 2 ounces, 23 and 1/2 inches long--with her hair, she looked like a mini punk rocker screaming her lungs out. I remember my obstetrician saying, "Girl, you would not have wanted to birth that child naturally..." I remember looking around and in my spinal block induced haze, asking if there was another woman giving birth in the operating room, because that baby didn't look anything like me! Ashtyn did of course, look like her Daddy, with her thick black hair. So that made it ok.

Ash was different in so many ways from Lauren, as a baby. Poor sleeper, veracious appetite, never napped, cried if anyone but mommy held her--which all lasted until she was well over a year. By then I was fast approaching a level of insanity reserved only for those who have second baby syndrome. Second baby syndrome is what occurs when you're lulled into a false sense of being a good parent because the first baby is easy. The second baby comes along and you quickly realize that if this had been the first child, there would never have been a second child. Of course this is a self-diagnosed syndrome, but I'm pretty sure there is psychological term for it somewhere.

We took it one day at a time. With Ashtyn, Jeff was unable to help as much. The new business we'd opened up took a great deal of his attention and I was focused on trying to keep my sanity and possibly get a shower once a day, while I raised our two small daughters. I adored my family. Even through the sleeplessness and the feelings of inadequacy, I adored them all.

Over the next four years Jeff and I plowed through our days. Some good, some bad. Some really good and some really bad. By the time we moved our little family into a new four bedroom house in a subdivision with a pool, we were feeling mostly positive about our future.

Mostly positive...

We had some really tough times after we moved. I think a part of it was the added pressure Jeff felt to meet a higher mortgage payment, and I experienced severe isolation, after leaving behind friends and neighbors who had become like family. I felt truly alone.

One morning, while trying to get Lauren to kindergarten on time, I found the car battery to be dead. I panicked--normally I'd have gone across the street and asked Larry, our grandfatherly neighbor, for help. Well, Larry didn't live across the street anymore. All that was there now was an empty lot. I felt like we'd moved to a new planet instead of 8 miles down the road.

It was a long climb back from the darkness of this period. I remember crying in the closet so that no one would see how devastated I felt. I remember feeling so alone that I wasn't sure how I'd get through the days and nights. We were in the throes of a true marital crisis, and all my husband had to offer were platitudes.

Eventually, with much counseling, the light appeared at the end of the tunnel. It felt like we'd come through the perfect storm, capsized, then righted our vessel and were sailing for clear skies and a mostly sunny shore.

Then Jeff found a lump under his arm. He had been fatigued all summer, but we had also landscaped our yard and painted the interior of the house. Two big home improvement projects, two little kids, one crazy business...it all added up to feeling tired. But his "tired" worsened. So, he went to the doctor.

I will never forget that day. I was teaching at the preschool and it was our fall festival. I was manning the bounce house and expected a call from Jeff to tell me all was ok, just an infection and some anti-biotics would do the trick. My gut told me something else, but I pushed it deep down inside--like I did every time my gut tried to tell me to get ready for a roller coaster.

My friend Julie, was helping at the bounce house too. The call came and I had to go inside the building to hear. Julie said she had the bounce house and to go on ahead. So, I went inside to hear Jeff better. What I heard changed our lives--all our lives--Jeff's, mine, our children's, our friends, our families lives forever.

"The doctor feels there is a primary cancer somewhere, but he doesn't know where. I have to have a biopsy and then they'll know. I need to come see you."

We sat in the preschool parking lot in his Jeep staring at the notes he'd taken about what needed to be done. MRI's, CT Scans, biopsy...terms that have floated around our lives, but had never touched them. "A primary cancer somewhere..." lingered in our heads. We tried to figure out how the doctor could be wrong.

The biopsy was scheduled for October 31, Halloween. I could not have imagined a more appropriate day for the start of a horror story.

November 7, finally the doctors had cut, examined, re-examined, met and discussed. Jeff's surgeon called and wanted us to come to the office right away. Well, that couldn't be good. We arrived and took our place in the waiting room--a room filled with other anxious faces, and those faces who knew this visit was routine and were making grocery lists in their heads.

In the doctor's office, we tried to keep it light. Surely if we're laughing he won't be able to deliver bad news. That's just bad form.

"Mr. Melton, you have cancer. It's a metastatic melanoma and it has spread to all of your major organs. It is in your lymph nodes, liver, lungs...and it will kill you. You don't have much time and I suggest you go home, get your affairs in order and spend time with your family. You will die from this and probably in 6-9 months."

It took an hour before I could pull it together enough to leave the office without tears flooding my face. But we left eventually.

I remember the day I found out I was going to become a single mother. The fear, the anxiety, the anger, the gut-wrenching nausea....

One day at a time. It's a well-worn cliche`, but more true than any advice I've ever been given. And I've been given A LOT of advice since that day in November.

As most will know by now, Jeff died, like the surgeon said. But not without a fight and not without exhausting all the medical remedies known to help stage four melanoma.

I am a single mother now. It's just as exhilarating and happy as the day my girls were born. But it is exhausting and challenging, too. I love my daughters more every day. They are becoming these amazing people with spectacular lives ahead of them. I don't take credit for who they are...it is without a doubt that God is completely responsible for the wonders that are Lauren and Ashtyn.

My heart goes out to all the single parents--fathers and mothers. One day at a time--it holds so much truth. See the good, see the blessings and occasionally yell and scream at God. He's tough. He can take it--and He will always love you...to the moon and back.

I was sitting with my youngest daughter this morning, watching a movie on the Disney Channel about a family who is temporarily torn apart because of a wish the daughter makes in a moment of anger. The family is divided, the mother and father forget who the children are and the children begin to disappear and forget who they have become.

In the end, of course, it is Disney, after all, the family is reunited. The closing shot is of the family reunited. They all understand more than ever how important they are to each other—how good it feels to be together.

My family has been robbed of this happy ending. My husband, my daughters’ father, the man who knew what it was like to sit up at 2 a.m. with our youngest when she cried and cried through the night as an infant. The man who shared my fear when our oldest was rushed to the emergency room by ambulance when, on the day before her second birthday, she suffered a seizure. The man who stayed by my side during the cesarean births of our daughters and held my hand, then held our babies. Only Jeff knows what we talked about on the day of our wedding, the Christmas Eves we helped Santa prepare a bounty for our little ones, the late night talks about opening our own business and the sacrifices it would take. We were a team. We went through everything a couple could experience and came through it all stronger and more dedicated and sure that we had one of those marriages that would endure—one our children would admire and one our grandchildren would hear stories about.

Our marriage was good. We saw each other through births, deaths, illnesses, laughs and tears. There were days we each wanted to walk away, but we could not see our lives without the other. There were days we were so happy, we wondered if it was too good to be true. I truly believed that when Jeff was diagnosed with cancer that our love would make him well. We would get through the cancer, too. We were brought closer than ever to each other…we leaned on each other even more. Only Jeff and I know the nights we cried together when he was struggling to find answers. Only Jeff and I know the nights he woke soaked in sweat from the cancer and how every night before we went to bed I would lay out a towel and extra pajamas to change into at 3 a.m. Only Jeff and I know the looks of love and heartache we exchanged at the realization that he was losing the fight and we would have to say good-bye to each other, our daughters and our life together. Only Jeff and I know what I whispered to him as I laid down on the floor by his bed the night he died.

I so desperately want to know what it would have been like to take family portraits over the years and see the change in our children, and the gray appear in our hair, and the lines of love and life show on our faces. I took so much for granted—I assumed so much. I was painfully wrong. We were robbed of together watching our children grow-up. Robbed of watching him teach our girls to ride their bikes, seeing them play soccer and basketball, hearing them sings their sweet songs. What would he say to the boys who asked them out? What would he think on the day they graduate from high school? How proud he would be to walk them down the aisle on their wedding day. How much he would spoil his grandchildren.

Jeff’s life and our life together were all taken from him. Someone made a mistake, had a bad day, and didn’t see the importance in doing their job and getting it right. Now it’s all gone---changed forever. A constant roller coaster of what ifs.

It’s Valentine’s Day today. Jeff always brought his three girls beautiful flowers. Huge bouquets of roses. It’s been two years without those roses. I am still trying to understand how and why this loss happened to my girls, to us, to our family. We have many blessings, but we miss him. I miss the history we shared, I miss his wit, I miss his friendship, and I miss the pride I felt when I listened to the investment seminars he gave. I miss being his business partner. I miss him being the daddy he was so good at being for our daughters.

I am so sad that we don’t get the happy ending and the 50th wedding anniversary. I will never have a 30 or 40 year anniversary. We were cut short of our 10 year anniversary. One mistake, one bad day and it all changed forever.