No one came to my son’s surgery. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not a single relative who had promised, “We’ll be there.” It was just me and my seven-year-old son, Noah, lying in a hospital bed far too big for him. He clutched a faded blue dinosaur, and I held his small hand, pretending I wasn’t terrified, pretending the hurt wasn’t real.
No one came to my son’s surgery. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not a single relative who had promised, “We’ll be there.” It was just me and my seven-year-old son, Noah, lying in a hospital bed far too big for him. He clutched a faded blue dinosaur, and I held his small hand, pretending I wasn’t terrified, pretending the hurt wasn’t real.
The pediatric wing of St. Mary’s Hospital had the sterile smell of antiseptic, mingled with the bitter tang of burnt coffee from the nurses’ lounge. I checked my phone every few minutes, hoping against hope that someone would walk through the door, a familiar voice calling our names, or at least a simple text that said, “We’re thinking of you.” But the phone stayed silent. The clock ticked too loudly, each second echoing through the sterile, bright room, emphasizing our solitude.
