She stood at the edge of his hospital bed, fingers wrapped around a hand that felt far too light, far too fragile. Machines whispered in the background, counting out the seconds she’d already wasted. Her husband hovered at the doorway, worn down by too many nights alone, by choices she hadn’t been brave enough to face. On the walls outside, a hundred drawings insisted on a truth she’d been running from: this boy had chosen her as his mother long before she ever accepted the role.
The next part changes everything.
