My knees nearly gave out.
My body reacted before my thoughts ever could.
I ran—straight into rain, into noise, into the blur of the city. Water streaked down my face as cars screamed past, horns blaring, lights smearing into color and chaos. My hair plastered itself to my neck, my clothes clung heavy with sweat and rain, my lungs burning as if they might split open.
When I reached the hospital room, I didn’t knock.
I shoved the door wide.
Ethan.
My baby.
He was curled small on the bed, too still, his hands wrapped thickly in layers of white bandages. He looked like my son—the boy who used to giggle whenever his fingers found piano keys—and at the same time, he looked unfamiliar, like someone pain had reshaped into a stranger.
I broke.
I fell against him, crushing him to my chest, sobs ripping out of me unchecked. My tears soaked into his hair as I clung to him.
“Ethan,” I whispered again and again. “Mama’s here. Mama didn’t leave. I’m right here, sweetheart.”
Everything rigid inside me dissolved the moment I felt his warmth.
The door creaked open.
A doctor stepped inside quietly.