Ethan lay on the stretcher, staring at the ceiling.
—“Mom?”
—“I’m right here.”
—“Am I gonna be okay?”
I squeezed his hand tightly.
—“Yes.”
Another lie.
Another necessary one.
At the ER, everything blurred.
More tests.
Another ultrasound.
X-rays.
Then a pediatric surgeon pulled me aside.
She had sharp eyes and a steady voice.
—“We need to operate.”
The ground shifted under me.
—“Surgery?”
—“Yes. The object is lodged in a sensitive part of the intestine. It’s not moving. It’s inflaming the tissue. If we wait, it could perforate.”
I couldn’t catch my breath.
—“What is it?”
She lowered her voice.
—“I can’t confirm until we remove it. But this isn’t typical. We’ve already notified hospital security and social services.”
I blinked.
—“Security?”
—“Ma’am… this may not be an accident.”
That was the moment I thought I might throw up.
Not because of the surgery.
Not even because of the word “perforate.”
But because of the thought I could no longer push away.
Someone had done this to my son.
And that someone… might live in my house.
I signed the consent forms with shaking hands.
Watched them wheel Ethan away.
He looked back once.
—“Don’t leave, Mom.”
—“I’m not going anywhere.”
When the doors closed, I collapsed into a chair.