The monitor behind her hiccupped. Then shrieked. A sound so wrong it felt like it split the room in half.
She flatlined.
The world exploded.
“Code blue!”
Hands were on me instantly, pulling me back.
“No—wait—” Dad’s voice broke.
“Clear the room!”
We were dragged away from her bed, from her body, from everything that still felt like it might matter. The door slammed in our faces. We were left on the outside of the glass looking in like witnesses to an execution.
“Clear!”
Her body jerked.
“Again.”
Nothing.
Time stretched. Folded. Wrapped around us until it felt thick enough to choke on.
I pressed my forehead to the glass. Cold bit into my skin. My breath fogged the window. The red flatline burned into my eyes until I saw it even when I blinked.
She was fine this morning. She kissed my forehead goodbye. Told me to eat more protein. Told me she loved me. Complained about the rain. She made coffee…
“She made coffee,” Dad whispered beside me. His voice was empty. He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t even loud. Just gone.
Inside the room, someone shook their head. Shoulders slumped. A nurse wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at me for half a second before looking away.
The doctor met Dad’s eyes. One small shake of his head. That was all.
I dropped to my knees. No scream left my lips. No sob clawed at my chest. Just a silence so thick it swallowed everything.
Dad collapsed beside me, arms around me like he was trying to hold both of us together. His shirt smelled like rain and sweat and something else I couldn’t name yet.
“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said softly. “We did everything we could.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was watching something inside me fall apart. Piece by piece.
“Please come with me.” She gestured with her hand and moved us to a side room as they took care of Mom’s body, preparing to clear the room like she’d never been there. Like the loss of her life didn’t mark the end of ours.
At some point, someone brought Dad a coffee he didn’t touch. Someone gave me water I didn’t drink. The world kept functioning around us like mine hadn’t just ended.
After what felt like hours but was most likely minutes, the door opened with a loud creak that made me glance up. A doctor stepped into the room, taller, older than anyone else we’d seen. Closely followed the one who couldn’t save Mom. He spoke to Dad in that too-gentle voice reserved for the worst news. I didn’t move, just sat on the plastic chair, fists clenched in my lap. “Mr. Harper,” the older doctor began. “I know this isn’t easy, but we need to discuss next steps as time is of the essence. She was an organ donor. If that’s still her wish, we’ll need to start the process ASAP. If not, we’ll begin preparing the body...for release.”
The body. Not her. Not my mom. Not your wife.
Dad nodded mutely, mouth trembling. “She always…” he cleared his throat like it would release the words he never thought he’d have to say. “She wanted to help people. She’d want that. Do it. Whatever it takes.”
I didn’t speak, couldn’t even if I tried. Just watched it all unfold before me. Because what was I supposed to say? She wasn’t just a donor. She was my mom. She was my mornings, my arguments, my safe place. She was laughter in the kitchen, late-night phone calls, emergency car rides. She was everything. And now she was a body. Dad stood in the corner with them, shoulders shaking. Blocking out the rest of the world as he drowned in his grief, like I wasn’t even there with him. Like I wasn’t right by his side dealing with the worst moment of our lives.
Unable to take Dad’s silent tears and rejection any longer, I walked back to her room. It was quieter now, even though the corridor was a hive of activity. She was still there—but not really, her body covered by a blanket. One bloodstained hand wasvisible, and I reached for her on instinct. It felt cool but was still soft, like life still clung to her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry you were scared.” Tears slid down my face unchecked. “I love you. I love you so much. I always will. I will never forget you.”
