“She used to talk in her sleep about buildings… did you know that?”
Sam answered, “Yeah. She stopped after a while.”
A strange, aching longing filled my chest.
Mark didn’t say a word. We just kept listening.
It wasn’t just one conversation.
There were several recordings, taken on different days over months.
An audio diary.
I realized they must have started recording these after their therapist suggested tracking their progress. But somewhere along the way, it had become something more.
With each clip, a pattern emerged.
My sons were trying to fix something.
In one recording, Sam said, “I found her old portfolio online. It’s still there. Someone archived it.”
Leo responded, “Then we start there. People don’t forget talent like that.”
My throat tightened.
I didn’t even realize I had leaned forward until Mark paused the audio.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he asked.
I nodded.
But before he could press play again, we heard the front door open.
Voices.
Leo and Sam.
They were home earlier than expected.
The laptop was still open between us.
I didn’t think—I just stood and walked out to confront them.
They rolled into the living room, still mid-conversation, their bags hanging from their wheelchairs. Sam stopped when he saw my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
