It was supposed to be just another peaceful afternoon at the park. Ethan ran across the grass, laughing as he played catch with Mark, while I sat on a bench, soaking in the crisp autumn air. Then, out of nowhere, my six-year-old’s voice rang out, slicing through the tranquility like a knife. “Mom! Look! Dad’s in a super fancy car!” I blinked, my heart skipping a beat. That didn’t make sense. We were struggling—scraping by on Daniel’s savings and my part-time job. A luxury car didn’t fit into the picture.

Walter stepped into the house after a long day at work, expecting the usual warmth of home. Instead, a piercing wail filled the air. His heart clenched. Logan was crying—again. He walked into the kitchen and found his wife, Abby, slumped in a chair, her hands gripping her temples. Her face was pale, her eyes red and puffy. “Oh, honey,” Walter murmured, stepping behind her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “How long has he been crying like that?” Abby let out a shaky breath and turned to face

I never thought I’d find myself like this—burning with fever, too weak to stand, and completely alone when I needed help the most. My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore. Every muscle ached, and even lifting my head off the pillow felt impossible. My one-year-old daughter, Lily, sat on the floor beside the bed, her tiny hands clutching a stuffed rabbit. She giggled, babbling happily, oblivious to the fact that her mother was barely holding on. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight off the nausea. This wasn’t