But my husband, Greg, couldn’t let go of the son he thought he was supposed to have.
Greg had grown up in a family where football wasn’t just a game.
It was practically a family tradition.
His father had been a respected high school coach, and Greg often told stories about Friday night games under bright stadium lights.
Even after his father passed away, Greg spoke about those memories like they were sacred.
“When we have a son,” he had told me while we were still dating, “I’ll teach him everything Dad taught me.”
Back then, I smiled because it sounded sweet.
Neither of us imagined life would take a different path.
Liam was only 3 when doctors finally gave us a diagnosis explaining why he struggled to walk.
We’d spent years going from one specialist to another, hoping someone would tell us it was temporary.
It wasn’t.
I still remember sitting in that small examination room while the doctor explained everything in careful, compassionate words.
