I really did. But a few hours later, a charge nurse slipped a note into my hand that read, “He’s lying. Check the camera at 3 a.m.” What I saw in the security room changed everything.
I was finishing up paperwork at my desk when my phone lit up with my ex-husband’s name. Our son was staying with him that week, so I answered immediately.
“Hey, so… don’t freak out,” Ryan said.
My pulse spiked. “What happened, Ryan?”
“Ethan broke his leg. He fell off his scooter. Freak accident. I was right there. I saw the whole thing.”
Ethan is ten. Adventurous, fearless, still my baby.
“Is he okay? Where are you?”
“He’s fine. Just shaken up. We’re at the ER.”
I grabbed my purse, told my boss it was an emergency, and drove to the hospital barely remembering red lights.
Ethan looked impossibly small in that oversized hospital bed, a bright blue cast stretching from ankle to knee.
“Hey, buddy.” I kissed his forehead. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes red and swollen.
“For what? You didn’t do anything on purpose.”
“For falling.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Were you trying tricks again?” I asked gently. He loved jumping the curb, even though I’d told him to wait until he was older.