I boarded with a knot in my stomach and a baby on my hip. Six months earlier, I’d stood under hospital lights identifying my husband’s body; three months later, I held our son, Ethan—David’s stubborn chin, David’s furrowed “thinking” brow. I was still learning how to breathe without him. Money was tight, sleep was a rumor, and teething had turned my sweet boy into a little siren. My mother kept saying, “Come home for a while.” Pride stalled me—until the car died and the nights got too long. I bought the cheapest seat I could find and prayed we’d make...
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