On the Tuesday that changed everything, I woke up already feeling weak. I had been dizzy and nauseous for days, but I pushed through, as mothers do. I packed the boys’ lunches, swept the crumbs, and even made banana pancakes, hoping maybe—just maybe—Tyler would smile.
When he stomped into the kitchen, I forced a cheerful “Good morning.” The boys echoed me with their innocent enthusiasm. He ignored us, grabbed a piece of dry toast, and muttered about a big meeting. I mentally reminded myself—the shirt. That cursed shirt.
“Madison, where’s my white shirt?” he barked from the bedroom.
I walked in, wiping pancake batter off my hands. “I just put it in the wash.”