Before My 19-Year-Old Son Died, He Donated His Heart to an 18-Year-Old Girl—Then Her Mother Handed Me a Letter: “Mom, There’s Something You Need to Know About Her”
Every late meeting became suspicious.
Every business trip.
Every strange phone call.
Every moment he seemed distracted.
Memory becomes dangerous after betrayal because it wants to recruit the entire past into the new story.
Therapy helped me resist that.
Some late meetings were probably meetings.
Some trips were work.
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