Just the zipper on that suitcase after my husband, Edward, finished packing, as if he were heading out for a weekend trip, not walking out on a newborn.
I was sitting on the bed, our son, Brennan, barely a week old, in my arms.
That’s what stuck with me.
Edward didn’t even look at him when he said it.
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“This” was our son, born with one leg shorter than the other.
That was it.
One sentence. One suitcase. And he was gone.
The next 16 years didn’t come easily.
There were doctor’s appointments, braces, and adjustments. Physical therapists pushed Brennan harder than I thought was fair. But he just kept going.
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