Pulling the bright-blue envelope from my bag, I hesitated for a moment before handing it over to my eldest son, Robert. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ I said, trying my best to smile. It should have been a happy occasion, his 26th birthday. We should have been about to open presents and indulge in birthday cake for breakfast, like we did every year. Instead, Robert looked anxious – and behind the brave smile he was putting on, I knew he was terrified. He had just enough time to open his card, read the scribbles that I’d signed from his dad, Phillip, then 58, brother, Sean, 21, and me, before we all headed to the hospital to find out once and for all, what was going on.
During his appointment, as Sean and…
