I watched strangers hurry past me. I watched the door swing inward and then shut again.
Minutes later, a doctor with a calm voice and a clenched jaw stepped into the hallway. His badge read “Dr. Patel.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We did everything we could.”
Daniel placed a steady hand on my shoulder.
After that, everything blurred together like a fever dream.
The funeral happened because Daniel organized it. My sister Mia answered the door, stacked casseroles on the counter, and kept whispering, “Just breathe.”
Daniel signed paperwork. Daniel spoke with the hospital. Daniel kept telling me, “Don’t worry. I have it.”
At that point I couldn’t even imagine dealing with any of it.
A week after the funeral, the hospital called.
