When I turned 40, Ken presented me with The Art of War and said it was one of the most important books I’d ever read. Upon reading, it was clear to me that Ken applied the same strategic thinking to approach life’s adversities as history’s most successful military leaders. Little did we know that within two years he’d be waging the battle of his life. And although he attacked that tumor and every setback that came with it like a warrior, the white flag finally went up May 11, cloaked in a perfume-coated scarf of Beatriz Elena’s.

What I remember best about Ken was not the fighter who tried to lick Stage 4 brain cancer. Inside that bald, deep-voiced bear of a man was a sense of calm and wonder at some of life’s smallest treasures. He saw the world through a child’s eyes, and as a result he understood where Eddie was coming from, especially when teachers, classmates, and friends didn’t. He cherished music, introducing my five-year-old to Motown’s finest work. He eschewed current toy crazes in favor of vintage metal playthings and the real classic Disney movies.

Above all, he loved Beatriz Elena with a ferocity that was evident even in his gentle eyes. I’ll never forget the way Ken looked at her—like he couldn’t believe God had carved out this amazingly beautiful, brilliant angel and given him the chance to share a life with her. A life that, for all its complexities and accomplishments, was just too damn short.

Kathleen Brady / and Philip, Graham, and Perrin Brady