The night my thirteen-year-old son fell into a coma is one I will never forget. The hospital lights were too bright, the air too cold, and every sound felt sharper than it should. Just hours earlier, Andrew had left for a simple walk with his father, full of the same restless energy he carried every day. I had reminded him, as always, to take care of himself. Then came the call that changed everything. By the time I reached the hospital, he was surrounded by machines, silent and still, while doctors worked quickly to understand what had gone wrong. I stood beside him, holding his hand, trying to believe that he could still hear me.
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