A year before Ethan died, he was perfectly healthy. Then he collapsed outside our kitchen.
Weeks later, a doctor diagnosed a rare progressive neurological disease.
I raised our son, Ethan, alone.
The doctor asked whether anyone in my family had died young.
“My brother,” I said. “But that was years ago. I don’t even know what he had.”
He made a note and kept talking.
“There has to be something,” I said.
“I wish there were.”