Then something changed—so gradually that at first, I barely noticed it, and certainly didn’t feel alarmed.
The first sign arrived one afternoon when Mason came home from school, mentioning that his stomach hurt a little—the kind of complaint a child makes after eating too fast at lunch.
I knelt beside him in the kitchen as he dropped his backpack near the door, placing my hand lightly on his forehead. “Did you eat too fast again, buddy?” I asked.
He shrugged in that careless way children do, assuming a small discomfort would vanish on its own.
“Maybe,” he said. “It just feels weird.”
I made him a cup of chamomile tea, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and told him to rest on the couch, convinced it would fade by morning, like childhood aches usually did.
For a brief moment, it seemed I had been right.
The next day, Mason woke with more energy, asked to take his soccer ball outside, and ran through the backyard as if nothing had happened.
But three days later, the nausea returned.
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