Two doctors knocked and asked him to step outside. Their expressions were heavier than usual.
“Mr. Rivera,” the senior neurologist said carefully, “we’ve done everything possible. Sofia’s condition is deteriorating. Keeping her on life support is no longer helping her. It’s prolonging suffering.”
Michael’s pulse roared in his ears. “You’re telling me to unplug her?”
“We believe it may be time to let her go.”
He exploded — anger, denial, grief. He pounded the table, demanded alternatives, begged for more time. But medical charts and scans offered no hope. Her brain activity remained minimal. Her body was failing.
Eventually, shattered, Michael stumbled into the hospital courtyard. He sank against a brick wall and wept like a broken man. Not even his wife’s death years earlier had undone him this completely.
“I don’t want you to suffer anymore,” he sobbed into the wind.
Hours later, empty and numb, he returned upstairs. He would say goodbye.
He reached Room 412. His hand trembled on the door handle.
Then a voice interrupted him.
“Don’t do it, sir. Don’t say goodbye.”
Michael turned sharply.