Near the bottom, I found something that made me stop.
Make Mom laugh without feeling guilty.
I covered my mouth.
Caleb sat beside me.
“He worried about you.”
I nodded through tears.
Then I turned another page.
Tell Dad he doesn't have to fix everything.
I began sobbing.
For fourteen months, David had spent every spare hour researching treatments.
Calling specialists.
Searching medical journals.
Trying to find something we'd missed.
Ethan had watched.
And he understood.
He knew his father was trying to save him.
But he'd also known how much it was costing him.
That evening, I showed David the notebook.
He read the sentence three times.
Then pressed the pages against his chest.
“I couldn't save him,” he whispered.
I sat beside him.
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
“But I tried.”
“You did.”
His voice broke.
“What kind of father can't save his own son?”
I took his face in my hands.
