The Son I Thought I Lost
I woke three days later. Ryan sat by the bed, eyes red, face crumpled.
“Noah is okay,” he said. “But they couldn’t save Owen.”
The room tilted. I cried with him, believing we grieved together. When I asked to see Owen, he said I’d been too unwell — that he’d handled arrangements, that we’d have a memorial later. I trusted him. Why wouldn’t I? He was my husband.
