“Yes,” he says firmly. “You did everything right. She’ll recover quickly.”
Damien drags a hand down his face. “What do we do now?”
“Stay with her,” Dr. Keller replies. “If she keeps improving, she’ll be home before Christmas.”
I nod, brushing a curl from her forehead. “She hates hospitals,” I whisper.
He smiles kindly. “Then we’ll do our best to get her home soon.”
He gives us both a reassuring nod before stepping back toward the door. “I’ll check on her in an hour. If her breathing changes, call the nurse right away.”
When the door closes, the silence rushes back in like a wave.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then Damien exhales, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pneumonia.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I didn’t even see it coming. She was playing fine two days ago—laughing, running around, fucking painting with me at the studio?—”
“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning closer. His hand finds mine on the bed, his thumb pressing into my palm. “You couldn’t have known. Kids hide that small stuff.”
“I’m her mother,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I should know?—”
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine, his voice low but fierce. “I know. But she’s strong, just like her mom.”
The words land somewhere deep, but they don’t stay. They don’t soothe. They only scrape against the place in me that’s been burning all night. I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t look at her. The little oxygen clip on her finger, the IV taped to her wrist, the small rise and fall of her chest that feels too fragile to trust.
The room feels like it’s shrinking. The air too thin, the beeping too rhythmically uneven. I stand up abruptly, pulling my hand from his.
“Will,” Damien says, voice quiet but firm. “Hey?—”
“I just—” I can’t even find words. My throat feels raw, my heart pounding as I take a step back from him.
“Where are you going?”
I shake my head, the tears curling around my chin. “I need to step out.”
“Babe—”
“Ineedto,” I snap, the word shaking through me.
His mouth opens, but whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue. He just nods once. “Okay.”
I turn before I can change my mind. My shoes scuff the linoleum, every step feeling louder than it should. The door opens with a hiss of air, and I walk out fast, like if I stop, I’ll fall apart right there in front of everyone.
The hallway smells of bleach and coffee. A nurse passes me, murmuring a polite “Good morning,” and I nod, though my throat feels too tight to answer. I keep walking until I reach the end of the hall, where the automatic doors open into the small smoking patio.
The morning hits me like a slap—cold air, blinding sunlight reflecting off patches of snow. I squint, raising a hand to shield my eyes, but the brightness makes my head spin.
For the first time in hours, there’s no beeping, no whispers of nurses, no sterile hum of machines. Just air. Real, sharp, winter air.
I step off the concrete and wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. The air outside is too sharp, the light too bright. It feels like the world has the audacity to keep moving while mine stands still.
I’ve been in buildings like this before—years of them. The walls are the same color, the smell of antiseptic the same sharpness that crawls up your throat and stays there. My own heart once beat under these lights, tethered to monitors that hummed through my dreams. I can still remember the rhythm of the machines, the way they whispered that I was alive because of other people’s mercy.
And now my daughter is in there. Hooked up to her own machines. Small, trembling, trying to breathe.
It hits like a physical blow. My hand flies to my chest before I even realize it, pressing against the faint ridge of my transplant scar beneath my sweater. The skin there still aches sometimes—ghost pain, the doctors said. But right now it feels real. It feels like the universe is reminding me that I was supposed to be the sick one, not her.
The sunlight glints off the patches of melting snow, and I stare at it until my eyes sting. The water pools near the curb, spreading in thin, uncertain lines that look like veins. “I should’ve seen it,” I whisper, the words splintering. “I should’ve known she wasn’t okay. I’m her mother. I’m supposed to?—”
