A week passed. The following days felt like a blur— taking turns between legal meetings, Elon’s needs, and nights spent staring at the ceiling. Elon’s treatment had started, and it came with a kind of tiredness that always worn me out at the end of the day— not that I didn’t want to do it.
My mornings were filled with discussions with Elon’s doctors and nutritionist, and I always listened carefully to every piece of advice they gave. I was cautious and on-hand. Damian, too. I guess we were finally seeing each other eye-to-eye. Somehow, I feel contented with the attention and effort he was showing to keep our son safe. We were both thorough in making sure Elon had the best care possible.
My afternoons, however, were spent buried in paperwork, finalizing decisions about the blocked payment
