The officer’s voice cut through the heat like a knife. “Get down!” he barked at my seventy-two-year-old husband. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the asphalt into a sizzling ribbon that seemed to shimmer with every step. It was ninety-seven degrees that day—the kind of heat that made the air itself feel like fire. Harold’s knees, stiff from arthritis and decades of wear, hit the pavement with a heavy thud. The sound echoed in my chest and refused to leave me. He lay there, face pressed against the scorching road,

Christmas morning came to a sudden, terrible stop the moment my five-year-old son ripped open a present and screamed at the top of his lungs, “YES! The other mom kept her promise!” The room went dead silent. My smile froze on my face. My coffee cup shook slightly in my hand. And my husband—my calm, steady husband—went completely pale. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask Simon what he meant. He didn’t even move. He knew exactly who my son was talking about. And the longer Mike stood there, silent and