That single word, deceptively cheerful with its exclamation mark, concealed a decision forming within me. For sixty‑seven years, I had been the supporter, the helper, the one who set aside her own needs. Widowed at forty‑nine, I’d poured everything into supporting Philip through law school, babysitting my grandchildren four days a week, and even contributing eighty thousand dollars toward the down payment on their suburban McMansion. My reward: an Uber suggestion and a reprimand.

With hands steadier than they’d been moments before, I opened another text thread, one with Dr. E. Harrison Wells—the renowned cardiologist who had initially consulted on my case before I’d been referred to Cleveland. We had developed an unexpected friendship during those preliminary appointments; his kind eyes and attentive manner were a stark contrast to the clinical detachment I’d expected from someone of his stature.