My phone rang while I was heading home. It was my six-year-old daughter, sobbing, saying she was in pain everywhere and terrified. I asked where her dad was. She said he was there—suffering too, helpless. I drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding with fear. What I walked into moments later shattered every expectation I had.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Isn’t your father there? Put Daddy on the phone.”

There was a pause. Too long.

“Daddy’s also in agony,” Sophie whispered. “He’s in his bed. He won’t wake up.”

A wave of cold fear rushed through me. My husband Michael was healthy, strong, never sick for more than a day. This wasn’t a flu. This was something else.

“Sophie, listen to me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Can you unlock the front door?”

“I think so… but it’s dark and I feel dizzy.”

“Sit down if you need to. Don’t move too fast. I’m coming home right now.”

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