Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow them. Energy is precious. Tomorrow is Saturday. Nolan and I promised the park, the swings, ice cream. I must push him higher, towards the clouds.
I pick up the stack of videos, files organized by age, by event, by milestone. I imagine him scrolling through them years from now, and I pray they will be enough. Enough to feel my love, to hear my voice, to know I believed in him even when I could not be there.
Every laugh, every whispered “I love you,” every Lego tower we built is now a treasure chest, a tiny inheritance of love. I am racing against time, trying to pack a lifetime of lessons into months.
Mark and I walk through the house together. Nolan’s artwork clings to the refrigerator, each scribble a declaration of life. I photograph each one, labeling them with dates and little stories. “Look, Nolan made the best rocket ship today,” I whisper, even though he is in school. Each image, each video, a fragment of memory I hope will survive me.
The smell of pancakes and coffee lingers. I breathe it in deeply, imprinting it into my mind. This will be what he remembers, not the antiseptic. Not the hospital. Not the fear.
