My son was thirty-three when the doctors finally stopped speaking in hopeful maybes and started speaking in quiet certainty.

At first, we had told ourselves it was nothing serious—just exhaustion, stress, something that would pass. There were scattered symptoms, strange pains, appointments that led to more appointments. But one afternoon, in a sterile room that smelled faintly of disinfectant and fear, a specialist folded his hands and gave us the truth in a voice that was far too gentle.

From that moment on, time behaved strangely. Days rushed forward, yet every hour felt unbearably long.