“I want to make you a promise. I will be a friend，”I said，“I will treat you as you deserve to be treated，with respect and kindness. You deserve that，”I said，“Everybody does.”I slipped out of the chair and closed the door behind me.
Jack avoided me the rest of the week. Proposals，specs，and letters appeared on my desk while I was at lunch，and the corrected versions were not seen again. I brought cookies to the office one day and left a batch on Jack’s desk. Another day I left a note.“Hope your day is going great，”it read.
Over the next few weeks，Jack reappeared. He was reserved，but there were no other episodes. Co-workers cornered me in the break room.
“Guess you got to Jack，”they said，“you must have told him off good.”I shook my head.“Jack and I are becoming friends，”I said in faith. I refused to talk about him. Every time I saw Jack in the hall，I smiled at him. After all，that’s what friends do.
One year after our“talk”，I discovered I had breast cancer. I was 32，the mother of three beautiful young children，and scared. The cancer had metastasized to my lymph nodes and the statistics were not great for long-term survival. After surgery，I visited friends and loved ones who tried to find the right words to say. No one knew what to say. Many said the wrong things. Others wept，and I tried to encourage them. I clung to hope.
The last day of my hospital stay，the door darkened and Jack stood awkwardly on the threshold. I waved him in with a smile and he walked over to my bed and，without a word，placed a bundle beside me. Inside lay several bulbs.