Before the illness, Sam had been all motion and laughter—racing toy cars across the kitchen floor, and inventing names for each one. Then came the diagnosis, the long hospital corridors, the machines that hummed through every night. Two years of treatments, two years of hope, fraying one thread at a time.
Ellen could still remember the way he’d smiled, even when breathing took effort. He’d called her “Momma racer” the morning before he slipped away, promising she’d win for both of them. After the funeral, three years ago, the world had turned quiet, everything running on half-speed, as if waiting for something that never came.