I used to live by rules. I don’t mean just the written kind — though I read more laws in a month than most people do in a lifetime — but the unspoken kind. The ones that say you’re supposed to think before you feel, explain before you trust, doubt before you believe. That was how I moved through the world. I was a corporate attorney, working across borders and time zones, fluent in the language of logic. I liked certainty. I relied on it. It gave me a sense of control.
Then my son died and certainty disappeared.
His name was Max. He was bright, fiercely determined, and — truly — a little tech genius. Even when he was sick — even when no one could explain what was happening inside his tiny body — he fought. He fought so hard. For four short years, he amazed doctors and specialists who couldn’t figure him out. He became a case study at the National Institutes of Health. His resilience baffled them. He defied expectations like it was his job.
And in between all the hospital visits and unknowns, he still found a way to live like only a child can — fully, deeply and with the kind of quirky joy that stays etched in your soul.
And he was still little. Too little to die.
