Someone near the back covered their mouth. My mother’s hand flew to her chest.
“I spent months living in a hospital room,” Adrian said. “I stopped being a doctor and became a father begging the universe for mercy. I argued with God. With science. With anyone who would listen.”
He swallowed, his jaw tightening.
“Lucas fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known. He lasted seven months. On the last night, he asked me if it was okay to stop being brave.”
My vision blurred.
“I told him yes,” Adrian said. “And the next morning, he was gone.”
The sound that followed wasn’t a gasp or a sob, but something heavier, deeper, the collective grief of a room suddenly realizing it had misjudged a man beyond repair.
“I couldn’t go back to the hospital,” Adrian continued. “I couldn’t walk past the pediatric wing. I couldn’t save lives anymore when I couldn’t save my own child.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
“I sold the house. I paid off debts. I donated what was left. And when the money ran out, I kept walking, because staying still hurt more than moving.”
