In the middle of managing sarcoidosis and all the glamorous paperwork life insists on assigning, I keep circling back to one voice I can still hear clearly: my mother’s—suddenly brighter, younger, almost mischievous—when an old name resurfaced after decades. It started as a phone call and ended up becoming one of those stories that quietly rearranges your insides… especially when you never get the ending you thought you’d get.
My Mother, Mr. X, and the Kind of Regret That Doesn’t Knock First
