The gentle, rhythmic hiss of the nebulizer was the soundtrack to my unfolding nightmare. My six-year-old son, Leo, sat propped up on the sterile white hospital bed, his small chest rising and falling with more ease now that the medicine was working its magic on his constricted airways. It had been a minor asthma attack, triggered by a sudden cold front, but any parent of an asthmatic child knows there’s no such thing as a “minor” attack when it’s your own kid gasping for breath. While Leo could finally breathe, I felt like I was suffocating. Because my ex-husband, the esteemed pediatric specialist Dr. Mark Thorne, had just walked in, and he was not alone. Flanking him like a pair of well-dressed vultures were his shark-eyed lawyer and a hospital social worker.
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