sh, the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, the sickening crunch of metal. The memories were a relentless tide, pulling

desperate attempt to impose order on a life that had none. In a forgotten corner, beneath a thin layer

st the side, then tumbled out. A picture frame. It hit the concrete floor with a sharp, sickening crack. The glass

were smiling, posed awkwardly in front of a brightly lit Christma

hildren, claiming he was "too sensitive to pain" to witness childbirth. I respected his choice, even got a tubal

ith a weak, desperate whimper that clawed at my soul. Jace had recoiled, pulling me away, muttering abo

t into his fragile form. I ran through the biting snow, back to the hospital, pleading for help. T

arie. I told Jace, told myself, tha

cure, a treatment for his legs. All the doctors could offer was painful, expensive physical therapy, with no guarantee of full recovery. At night, when the pain made Annamarie cry, I walked the floors, holding him close, singing lullab

at I hadn't known was possible. A pure, unadulterated happiness. I poured everything