change my relationship with my son.
After the doctors explained Ethan’s prognosis, I became obsessed with preserving memories.
I photographed everything.
Ethan eating breakfast.
Ethan sleeping with one sock missing.
Ethan making disgusted faces at hospital food.
Ethan arguing with Chris over football statistics.
I recorded his laughter.
His jokes.
His complaints.
Sometimes I secretly recorded ordinary conversations because I was terrified of forgetting the exact sound of his voice.
My phone filled with thousands of pictures.
Eventually, I purchased additional cloud storage.
I told myself I was creating something precious.
A collection of moments I could return to someday.
A way of holding on to my son when the house became unbearably quiet.
But I failed to notice something important.
Every time I raised my phone, Ethan watched me.
Every photograph placed a little screen between us.
And slowly, without realizing it, I stopped participating in ordinary moments.
