My name is Theresa Quinn, and I am forty-two years old. I live in Portland, Oregon, in a modest apartment not far from the hospital where I work part-time as a billing assistant. For years my life moved quietly between routine and recovery. After my husband Brian left me for someone younger, I focused on holding things together for my son Liam, who was only fifteen at the time. We survived, though not gracefully.
That spring afternoon began like any other. The light outside was gray, the laundry half-done, and I was waiting for Liam to come home from school. When the front door finally opened, I knew instantly that something was wrong. His footsteps sounded heavier than usual, and he called out my name with a strange tremor in his voice.codm
“Mom, please come here.”
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