“Mom… Dad is waiting for you to die. Please don’t wake up.”
That was the first thing I heard after twelve days of darkness.
Not sleep. Not rest.
Darkness.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t open my eyes.
Even breathing felt like it hurt.
But I knew that voice.
“Ethan…”
My son.
Nine years old.
Crying next to my hospital bed, holding my hand like he used to when he was scared.
“Mom… if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please.”
I tried.
God, I tried.
