More excerpts from "A Love Worth Fighting For."

Rachael

From time to time, Carol has told me stories of her past. Since her near death experience, we’ve often found ourselves awake at night after a trip to the bathroom. We’ve had magical conversations in the dark, which frees her mind, allowing her to take leaps back to those bright, shiny stones that litter her past, each one an uncut jewel. I love these stories.

Late at night, both awake, she starts talking and I listen. When she falls silent, I ask her, “Do you remember that first time I came to your house?”

“You knocked on my door, and asked my mother, ‘Is Susie Lamb here?’ and I remember thinking, ‘He knows Susie’s not here.’ And my mother asked you if you’d like to come in, and she made us lemonade and popcorn.”

Carol’s mother, Rachael, was always making something. Like Carol’s Grammy Small, she was a great cook . . .

When Carol was a young girl, her family lived in an apartment on Portland’s Munjoy Hill. “My mom was always cooking chocolate chip cookies; we’d be playing outside, me and my brother and sister, and we could smell the cookies. I remember hearing our neighbors say, ‘Rachael’s cooking.’”

I spent countless hours in her mom’s kitchen after they moved to Falmouth. And it wasn’t to win Rachael’s affection—somehow, I knew I had that from the start—her unconditional love and support for Carol and me. Everyone loved Rachael, and I was no exception. Later, when we had our three boys, they spent many hours in her kitchen. It was always full of Carol’s numerous aunts, uncles and cousins.

But they’re all gone now, like Rachael.

Carol’s a lot like her mom. It’s where she gets her faith, loyalty, steadfast courage, and many of her mom’s saintly qualities. But, unlike her mom, Carol’s no saint. Like her father, Nate, she’s sometimes stubborn and slow to forgive—she never forgets—and she can be downright feisty. When she gets that steely-eyed look, sets her chin, and purses her mouth tight, I give her space. And time. Time for the Rachael in her to shine through. Sometimes it takes a while. It’s like there’s a lioness within her, quietly sleeping, but at any moment, it can wake and pounce.