By the time he used the word terminal, Stella had already stopped breathing normally.
Our eight-year-old had cancer.
I remember watching the doctor’s pen roll toward the edge of his desk.
It fell.
No one picked it up.
After that, our life became appointment cards, plastic wristbands, and food Mike was too nauseated to eat.
His cleats remained beside the back door. Mud dried in the grooves.
I could not bring myself to clean them.
His cleats remained beside the back door.
At the hospital, nurses learned which arm he preferred for blood draws.
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