Brooks left two hours ago, and I’m standing alone in the corner while they work on Dad, trying to stabilize him.
Everything is spinning out of control.
Machines shriek and nurses shout orders, but all of it fades beneath the pounding of my heart. The beeping, the rush of feet,the curtain being pulled, it all collapses into static. I can’t hear anything clearly. I can’t think. I can barely breathe.
And all I feel is regret.
Why didn’t I come back sooner?
Why did I keep putting off visits, keep telling myself there’d be more time?
Why did I stay so long in a place that never felt like home, whenthis—this man fighting to breathe—washome?
If something happens to him… if he doesn’t come out of this…
My knees threaten to buckle.
I grip the edge of the wall, forcing myself to stay upright, to stay here. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only this room, this noise, this fear clawing its way up my throat.
I should have come back.
I should have told him he mattered before now.
I stand just outside the tangle of bodies and machines, watching hands press to his chest, watching tubes get inserted and numbers flash across the screen like some cruel countdown.
My heart is hammering so loud it drowns out everything andeveryone. I want to scream. To beg. To undo time.
"I’m here," I whisper, uselessly. "I’m here now."
But what if I’m too late?
And if this is goodbye, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The monitor blares. A nurse yells for a crash cart. A second voice calls for a doctor. Hands move fast. A curtain is half drawn, but I can still see the shape of him—still, frail, slipping away.
And I’m frozen. Paralyzed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, needing to escape, to go somewhere—anywhere—he’s still alive.
And suddenly, I’m six years old again.
We’re at the county fair.
The sky is blue, sticky with heat and the smell of cotton candy and livestock. One moment, I’m holding his hand, and the next, I’m not.
I’m lost.
The crowd swells and swirls around me, towering strangers in sunhats and cowboy boots. I can’t see Dad anywhere. I start to call his name, first with hope, then with rising panic. The tears come fast and hot, blurring every shape and color. I’m drowning in sound—laughter, music, the bark of a game vendor—but none of it ishisvoice.
Then suddenly, there he is.
He’s running toward me, arms out, face etched with worry. He scoops me up and holds me so tight I can barely breathe.
"I’ve got you, Ellie Girl," he says into my hair. "I’ve got you."
We were only apart for a few minutes. But to six-year-old me, it felt like hours. The panic, the helplessness, the sheer grief of being alone, it was overwhelming.
And now?
