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She remembered me.

She remembered my son.

And she wrote that watching parents find their strength again—after believing they had none left—was the most precious reward she could imagine.

Her words were simple. But they carried weight.

A reminder that some angels don’t appear with wings or miracles.

Sometimes they wear scrubs.

Sometimes they knock softly on your door in the middle of the night.

Sometimes they heal you in ways you don’t fully understand until years later.

Now, when life feels heavy, I think of her.

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