At my dad’s funeral, the chapel felt like it was holding its breath. It was the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. People stared at the carpet or at their folded hands, like looking up might break them. The air smelled thick—lilies mixed with old wood—and every tiny sound felt too loud. Shoes brushed the floor. Someone coughed. A ring tapped softly against a wooden pew. Each noise landed hard in my chest. I sat very still, my palms pressed together so tightly my fingers hurt. I kept

I grew up knowing one thing about myself like it was stamped on my file in bold letters: foster kid. I’m Alan. I’m 23 now. That word followed me everywhere—school offices, doctor visits, new houses with new rules. I learned early how not to ask questions. Questions made adults uncomfortable. Questions made things change. So I learned to stay quiet and fit wherever I was placed. There were a few foster homes. Some were bad. Some were just okay. One made me feel like I could finally breathe. That one

I’ve spent my entire career fixing broken hearts, but nothing prepared me for the day I met Owen. He was six years old, lying in an oversized hospital bed, so small and fragile it looked like the sheets were swallowing him. His eyes were enormous, too big for his pale face, and his chart read like a death sentence: congenital heart defect. Critical. The kind of diagnosis that steals childhood and replaces it with fear. When I walked in, his parents sat beside him like empty shells, hollowed out from