That thought keeps me awake at night.

I began volunteering with hospital advocacy groups—working on policy changes, pushing for stricter access control in maternity wards. Evan’s name is printed on one of those policies now.

Daniel sends birthday cards. I don’t answer them.

Margaret writes letters from prison. I don’t open them.

People tell me I’m strong.

I don’t feel strong.

I feel awake.

And every time I see a nurse’s cart rolling down a hallway, I remember the moment an eight-year-old boy told the truth—even when it was already too late to save his brother.