At the memorial for my daughter who passed unexpectedly, my 7-year-old grandson tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Mommy says you need to check her stomach.” When I did, I froze—because what I found changed everything.

The mornings in New England always begin quietly. For me, they have begun at precisely 5:00 a.m. for over thirty years. The habit, ingrained from my career as a nurse, remains etched into my very bones, a stubborn ghost that refuses to acknowledge my retirement. Even now, two years after hanging up my scrubs for the last time, my eyes snap open in the dim, pre-dawn light, my internal clock still set to the rhythm of hospital shifts and morning rounds.