That word became both the most painful and the most important word in our house.
Julian was only eight.
He looked at me from beneath a thin hospital blanket and asked whether he was going to be okay.
I wanted to promise him that everything would return to normal.
Instead, I held his hand and told him, “Whatever happens, we’re going to learn how to do this together.”
At the time, I believed “we” included my husband.
His name was Preston.
For the first few weeks, I told myself he was simply in shock.
He rarely came to Julian’s physical therapy sessions. He missed specialist appointments and spent more and more time at work. Whenever I asked him to come with us, he would say he couldn’t move meetings or that someone had to keep earning money.
I defended him to everyone.
