Now, it’s worse.
Because here in the hospital room, I’m lost all over again. Standing still while everything around me blurs. Nurses move fast, machines scream, people shout, but none of them are Dad. He’s slipping away, and I can’t reach him.
I close my eyes.
He’s going to find me.
He always finds me.
Everything is going to be okay.
Right?
But the air moves.
It’s small at first. Just a flicker in the corner of my vision, a sudden hush that moves through the room like everyone is holding the same breath. The kind of stillness that meanssomething is about to change. The nurses glance toward the doorway, and even before I turn, I know.
I feel it. The way grief can recognize its own before words ever pass between us.
A breath catches in my throat. I open my eyes slowly, the world coming back in pieces—white walls, wires, the rhythmic beeping of a monitor that feels far too slow.
And then, I see her.
My mother.
She’s standing in the doorway, pale and rigid, her hands clenched at her sides like she doesn't know what to do with them. Her purse slips from her shoulder, landing with a soft thud at her feet. She doesn’t move to pick it up. She just stares at Dad, at all the tubes and machines and the way his chest rises and falls, shallow and too still.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something I’ve never seen before.
Terror. Raw and unfiltered.
Not the kind she masks with avoidance. Not the kind she wraps in excuses or buries beneath forgetfulness. This is real. Cracked open. Broken. The kind of fear she can’t run from.
She doesn’t say anything. But her face falls and I see it. She’s wracked with grief, maybe a little guilt.
My mouth parts, but no words come out.I tried to tell you.You should have come sooner.But I say nothing. Just silence.
Because beneath all the resentment, beneath the years of emotional distance and confusion, I know exactly how she feels.
I’m scared, too.
She steps forward. Only one step. But it feels like a lifetime’s worth of courage.
"Is he…?" she starts, then shakes her head, her voice crumbling as nurses step aside to give her space. "Is he still...?"
"He’s here," I manage to say, my fingers trembling. "But he’s tired."
My mother walks to the side of the bed and gently places a hand over his.
"I didn’t know if I’d make it in time."
I swallow hard. "You did, Mom. You did."
My mother doesn’t sit.
She just stands there, her hand resting gently over his, her body trembling like she’s barely holding herself together. For years, she’s lived inside the same four walls, pacing the same floorboards, anchored by fears she’s never fully named.
And now she’s here.
