When my son fell gravely ill, my world shrank to the steady rhythm of hospital machines and the fragile weight of his hand resting in mine.
He was only thirty-eight—far too young to be facing end-of-life decisions. Far too young to be left behind.
His wife didn’t remain long once the diagnosis became undeniable. At first, she wept loudly in front of doctors and friends, clinging to his arm whenever visitors were present. But at night, when it was just the two of us, she would slip away early, murmuring excuses about exhaustion, about needing “air,” about being unable to watch him fade.
