NATALIE

The first sign that something was wrong with Ethan was so small that I almost ignored it.

He was tired.

That was all.

At least, that was what I told myself.

It was a Tuesday morning, the kind of gray Boston morning where the sky looked like it had forgotten how to become blue, and Ethan was sitting at the kitchen table with his little legs swinging beneath him while he pushed a piece of toast around his plate.

Usually, getting him to sit still long enough to eat was an accomplishment worthy of a medal.

That morning, he didn’t even argue.

“Ethan.”

He looked up at me.

His...