“Yes, baby.

Daddy’s coming.”

Then I called Garrett again. And again. And again.

Eighteen times, while the doctors fought for Ethan.

Eighteen times, while I stood beside my child, helpless and terrified.

Eighteen times, while my son needed his father.

Garrett never answered.

When the doctor finally stepped back, defeat written across his face, he said the words that split my life in two.

“Time of passing, 11:47 p.m.”

For two hours, I sat beside Ethan without crying.

The grief had gone too deep for tears.

It hollowed me out until even breathing felt wrong.

At 2:17 a.m., Garrett appeared at the end of the hallway.

Silk tie undone. Polished shoes. Hair a mess.

Not from rushing. From something else.