But five years ago, I hung up my white coat. I traded the chaos of the ER for the manicured silence of the suburbs, replacing my stethoscope with gardening shears. I thought I had left the life-or-death stakes behind me. I thought the hardest part of my life was over.

I was wrong. The darkness didn’t stay in the hospital; it followed me home, wearing the face of family.

My son, Michael, had married a woman named Jennifer two years ago. Jennifer was the picture of perfection—bright, attentive, soft-spoken. When she looked at me, her eyes would light up with a reverence that fed my ego.