“Theresa, I’m sorry to wake you,” she said, her professional tone laced with real concern. “Austin called my emergency line. He’s at Mount Sinai. He had a severe panic attack while driving — thought it was a heart attack.

He’s okay, but he has no health insurance since he lost his corporate job. He’s begging for you. He says the bill is going to be ten thousand dollars.

He’s asking for a loan from the ‘family savings.'”

I sat up, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. The mother in me — the woman who’d slept on the lumpy couch, who’d sold her earrings — screamed to get on the next flight out of Charles de Gaulle.

My heart pounded, a physical ache in my chest.

He is my baby, the voice whispered. He is in pain.