As he turned to go, I paused before stepping forward. Even in that second, I found myself stepping into familiar rhythms, calling back memories I’d tried to bury. Neil once saved me, in small ways that became big. Maybe he still can. He disappeared into the drizzle, but in my chest, something sparked: a fragile, dangerous, determined flicker.
I was no longer watching from the sidelines.
I was preparing to fight.
“Are you ready for today?”
“Yes, Mom!” Liam answered, chuckling sweetly.
It was another check-up day for my son and as usual my heart bleeds every single time we're in the clinic. Dr. Beltran wanted to monitor his breathing patterns again after last month’s mild asthma flare-up. I had called the school ahead—his absence was excused.
The pediatric ward was unusually quiet when we arrived. A soft hush blanketed the hallways, interrupted only by the muted squeak of nurses’ shoes and the distant beep of machines. The fluorescent lights overhead cast sterile halos along the tiled floor, and the smell of antiseptic clung to the air.
“Liam Josef Hatton,” the nurse called, smiling warmly. “Dr. Beltran will see you now.”