My mom died from cancer. I watched her shrink. Some days she joked. Other days, she just stared at the wall and apologized for “being difficult.”

I’m Alex Rivera, 29M, living in Denver, Colorado. My mom, Maria, was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer when I was 25. She was 58, still working part-time as a school librarian, still the person who remembered every neighbor’s birthday and made tamales from scratch for block parties. The diagnosis came after months of “just indigestion” and unexplained weight loss. By the time they found it, the cancer had spread to her liver and lungs. Doctors gave her 12–18 months. She got 14.

I moved back home to help Dad care for her. My younger sister was in grad school across the country, so it fell mostly to me. I quit my job in marketing, took freelance gigs when I could, and basically lived in sweatpants for two years. Hospice came in the last six months.

Watching her shrink was the worst part. Not just the weight—she dropped from 145 to under 90 pounds—but the way her world got smaller. She went from walking the dog every morning to barely making it to the bathroom. From reading three books a week to staring at the same page for hours. Chemo made her hair fall out in clumps; radiation burned her skin raw. She hated the mirror.

Some days she was still Mom. She’d crack jokes about her “new diet plan” or tease me for burning toast. One afternoon she insisted on teaching me her pozole recipe even though she could barely stand—she sat on a stool directing me like a drill sergeant, laughing when I added too much cumin. Those moments felt like stolen time.

Other days the pain meds weren’t enough, or the exhaustion won. She’d lie in the hospital bed we set up in the living room, eyes fixed on the wall, silent for hours. When I asked if she needed anything, she’d whisper, “I’m sorry I’m being so difficult.” Like asking for water or a blanket was an imposition. Like her dying was inconveniencing us. I’d sit on the edge of the bed, hold her hand, tell her she wasn’t difficult, she was fighting like hell. She’d squeeze back weakly and say, “I just want to go home,” even though she was already there.

The end came quietly. One night in early spring she slipped away while Dad and I slept in chairs beside her. No dramatic last words—just her breathing slowing until it stopped. We held each other and cried until the sun came up.

Two years later, I still hear her apologizing in my head. I wish I could tell her one more time that she was never difficult. She was the easiest person in the world to love, even when cancer tried to take that away.

I miss her every day.