I was thirty-five, six months pregnant with our second daughter, and raising a four-year-old who still believed her father was going to recover because, in her mind, that was simply what parents did.

For once in my life, I don’t have a detailed, color-coded plan for what comes next. And surprisingly, I’m okay with that.

I couldn’t give Jack back the brother he never got to know. I couldn’t undo the tragic years they spent separated. And I couldn’t erase the fact that my husband kept an enormous secret from me because he was terrified I would sacrifice too much.

But maybe, just maybe, I could make sure one thing didn’t happen again. Maybe Jack’s family didn’t have to be lost twice.