He also forgot that today was our child Ethan's death anniversary.
Six years ago, I was at the hospital taking care of my critically ill father.
When I got home, I found Ethan unconscious from an allergic reaction, his throat swollen, not waking up.
Even though I did first aid immediately and sent him to the hospital, he still gradually went stiff, and lay in the morgue ice-cold.
All that was left were his eyes, full of defiance, and a terrified "Mom" squeezed from his throat.
That day, I lost my child.
That same day, I lost my father.
At the funeral, the local media tore me apart—wall-to-wall coverage calling me a death omen, a lone star who killed her father and her child.
They said bad luck clung to me. That I killed my own son.
Old Mrs. Patterson even waited along my route and splashed chicken blood on me to "drive away evil."
Alex rushed to the hospital and didn't blame me. He sued over a dozen outlets for reckless reporting. He held me, told me again and again it was an accident, that I still had him.
After Ethan died, every six months a new "sister" moved in.