The kitchen became the centre of everything. Meals were no longer simply meals. They were acts of nourishment and focused care. I slept with a baby monitor beside my pillow so I could hear him breathing, or stirring, or calling out. My dog Purusha abandoned my bed and took up permanent residence on my father’s, curled against him in quiet companionship. We lived inside a cycle of near farewells and unexpected recoveries, so many that we learned to laugh at them, phoenix-like returns that gave us brief reprieves from the inevitable.