Three months earlier, our lives had looked completely different.
We were an ordinary family living in a three-bedroom house with a mortgage, an aging minivan, and a backyard swing set Chris had struggled to assemble.
Our refrigerator was covered with school schedules, dental appointments, and reminders about Ethan’s soccer practices.
Chris worked as an engineer.
I handled bookkeeping for two small businesses from a desk in our bedroom.
And Ethan filled our home with the endless noise of childhood.
Sunday afternoons belonged to football.
Chris shouted at the television whenever our team made a terrible play.
Ethan corrected his father with the confidence of a professional commentator.
And I insisted I didn’t care about football, only to become furious whenever I disagreed with a referee’s decision.
“Mom,” Ethan once laughed, “you don’t even understand the rules!”
“I understand unfairness when I see it!”
Chris nearly choked on his chips.
