Three Days on the Pediatric Ward Showed Me What My Mother Tried to Steal From My Son

I hadn’t touched that secondary account since the month Richard died.

My phone screen dimmed, reflecting the gentle rise and fall of Caleb’s blanket.

Nurse Ruth came into the room with a small paper cup of warm chicken broth and set it on the bedside table.

“He can try a few spoonfuls once he wakes up,” Ruth said, checking the flow regulator on the IV line.

“Thanks, Ruth,” I said.

“You’ve been in that chair for five hours, Nora,” she said gently.

“You need to go outside and get some fresh air.”