The hospice nurse’s words pierced me like a blade: Bryson may only have a week left. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Time, once ordinary, became a merciless countdown. Our home transformed overnight—from a place of laughter and toys into a room dominated by machines and the hum of monitors. The oxygen concentrator’s quiet whir replaced his giggles. The walls seemed to hold their breath with me, echoing the weight of impending loss.

Every glance at Bryson is now a memory in the making. The soft curve of his lashes, the warmth of his tiny hand, the faint rhythm of his breathing—I memorize it all. Each detail feels sacred, as if committing it to memory might somehow keep him with me longer. Yet every moment brings the haunting awareness that soon, I may no longer hold him at all.

The questions torment me. How do you plan a funeral for your child? Choose flowers, music, words for a life cut short? Decide between burial and cremation when all you want is for him to live? Nights are the hardest, when silence amplifies grief, and I find myself bargaining with the universe: Please, let him stay. Please, let me wake from this nightmare. I think of milestones he will never reach—first day of school, first lost tooth, teenage laughter—and the ache is relentless.

And yet, even amidst despair, there are fleeting pockets of peace. When I hold him close, when his fragile head rests against my chest, love becomes my anchor. Every lullaby sung, every story read, every gentle touch is a gift I can give him now. I tell him, over and over: I love you. I’m here. Always.

Strength, I’ve learned, isn’t the absence of breaking—it’s the necessity of holding on despite it. I am not strong because I feel capable; I am strong because I cannot choose otherwise. Bryson needs me. And if our roles were reversed, I know he would fight for me too.

The past haunts me—the bright pictures of him full of life and mischief—remind me of how fragile joy can be. And the future terrifies me, a place of silence and empty rooms. Yet I return to the present. Bryson is still here. His hand is still in mine. His warmth still fills this moment. Today is all I am promised.

So I love him harder. I memorize his laugh, even if faint. I kiss his cheeks, tell him stories, thank him for his impact, for his love. If love could keep him here, he would live forever.

I cannot choose life for him. But I can choose love—and I will, with every breath, untilhis last.