Not the main one—this was smaller, quieter, tucked behind a set of double doors that never stopped opening. Nurses passed through without looking at us. Doctors spoke in low voices that blurred together. Machines beeped somewhere beyond the walls, steady and impersonal.
We sat. And we waited.
Time stretched into something unrecognizable. No one checked their phone anymore. No one spoke above a whisper. Charlotte sat rigid beside Vivian, arms crossed tight over her chest. Oliver leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Henry stood, paced once, then sat again—only to stand back up minutes later.
Ethan stayed beside me. Not touching constantly, not hovering—just there. Every so often, his hand would find my wrist, and I could breathe a little easier.
I kept staring at the doors.
My father was in there. Cut open—his chest split apart. His heart stopping and starting again under someone else’s hands.
When the doors opened one more time, we all startled. A man in green scrubs stepped through, surgical cap still on, mask hanging loose around his neck. He looked tired.
His eyes scanned the room once. “Mr. Langley?”
All of us were on our feet instantly.
“That’s us,” Henry said, his voice tight.
The surgeon nodded, already turning toward a quieter corner of the hall. “Let’s talk over here.”
That walk—those few steps—felt longer than the flight.
He stopped, folded his arms, and took a breath. “The surgery is over.”
My lungs burned with the sudden rush of air.
“Your father had a significant myocardial infarction,” he continued. “There were multiple blockages in three major coronary arteries. We performed a triple bypass.”
It felt like we were all clinging to that breath like a lifeline.
“The procedure itself was successful,” the surgeon said. “He’s stable right now, but he’s still in critical condition. The next twenty-four hours are vital.”
His eyes were on me, so I nodded once—an automatic gesture.
“He’s sedated and on a ventilator,” the surgeon went on. “That’s expected after a surgery like this. We’re keeping him asleep to reduce stress on his heart while his body adjusts.”
Charlotte’s hands went to her hips as she rocked slightly on her feet, her gaze flicking anxiously toward Oliver.
“Is he—” Oliver started, then stopped. Swallowed. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s where we want him to be, given the circumstances,” the surgeon said. “There were no major complications during the surgery. That’s good. But recovery will take time. Days in the ICU. Weeks in the hospital. Months after that.”
Ethan’s fingers curled into mine.
“Can we see him?” Henry asked.
The surgeon nodded. “Briefly. One at a time. He won’t wake up yet, but it can help.”
Help whom?
“Ash, you go.” Henry’s hand landed on my back, giving me a gentle nudge.
“This way,” the surgeon said.
My fingers slipped from Ethan’s as I followed him past the doors. Inside, he handed me off to a nurse who guided methrough the ICU—past rows of glass walls and softly glowing monitors. The antiseptic smell hit me square in the chest, my pulse spiking as she turned the corner and yet another room came into view.
She didn’t let me inside. Just close enough to see him through the glass.
