One quiet, overcast California morning—the kind that feels like even the sky is too tired—I was heading to the pediatrician with my sick son. Jamie, just one year old, was tucked into his stroller, his tiny breaths fogging up the clear plastic cover. He’d had a fever all night, and every little whimper cut through me like glass.
I checked my diaper bag. Formula? Check. Spare clothes? Check. One exhausted single dad running on caffeine and prayers? Also check.
Parenting solo wasn’t the life I imagined. My wife, Paulina, was my everything. But when she died during childbirth, my world shattered. Jamie became my anchor. Every step, every decision—it was all for him.
