I woke up that morning the same way I had for six months. Alone. I reached for my son’s hoodie, pressed it to my face, and whispered, “I miss you, buddy.” Luke had been seven when the car accident took him. Seven years of bedtime stories, scraped knees, cereal spilled on the counter, and laughter that filled every corner of our house. Then one phone call erased the future I thought was guaranteed. The hospital room was too quiet. The doctor’s voice was gentle but final. I remember nodding as if I understood, even though nothing made sense anymore. A...
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