PART 1 — HIS LAST WISH

My husband died years ago, so I raised our son, Caleb, almost entirely on my own.

He was all I had.

A year earlier, Caleb had been a perfectly ordinary eighteen-year-old who complained about dishes, forgot to charge his phone, drew pictures in the margins of everything, and believed sleeping until noon was a legitimate weekend activity.

Then one afternoon he became dizzy and collapsed.

Weeks of appointments followed.

Blood work.

Imaging.

Specialists.

Second opinions.

Eventually, a neurologist sat across from us and told me Caleb had a rare progressive neurological disease.

There was treatment for symptoms.

There were things doctors could try to slow parts of the progression.

There was no cure.

I refused to understand that sentence.

I sold my car.

Sold the family gold I had kept for years.

Emptied savings.

Called specialists in three states.