No one came.
At 5:58 a.m., Caleb tightened his small fingers around mine and whispered, “Is Grandma lost?”
I lied.
“She’s probably on her way, buddy.”
He nodded as if he believed me, but his eyes kept drifting toward the hallway.
At 6:22, the nurse began rolling his bed toward the operating room. Caleb looked even smaller beneath the hospital lights, swallowed by blue blankets, wires, and the gentle beeping of machines. He tried to smile at me, but his lower lip shook.
“Tell Aunt Vanessa I wasn’t scared,” he said.
That broke something inside me.
For six hours, I sat by myself. No text. No missed call. No “How is he?” Not even a heart emoji from the people who posted birthday collages calling themselves “family above everything.”
Caleb made it through the surgery. The doctor said everything had gone well, though recovery would require careful attention. I cried in the bathroom so my son would not see me fall apart.
