His wife stood at the foot of the hospital bed the day we received the diagnosis. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask what could be done. She didn’t move closer when the machines began their soft mechanical rhythm.

Instead, she crossed her arms and said words that still echo in my ears.

“I’m not going to waste my life watching him turn into a vegetable.”

And then she left.

No tears. No goodbye. No backward glance.

Within weeks, I sold my house.

The home where I had raised him.

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