She had slept beside his hospital bed, missed classes, and held him together for weeks. When she finally walked away, I learned why she had really stayed.
“I’m sorry. I can’t keep pretending anymore.”
Emma was crying so hard she could barely get the words out.
We were standing beside the hospital elevators, and she had both hands pressed against her face.
Behind us, my son’s room door was still open.
I could hear the television.
Nothing else.
She stepped back.
Not because she was angry with me. Because she looked terrified she’d say too much.
“Let him tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She shook her head.
“He has to tell you. It can’t come from me.”
Then the elevator doors opened.
She got inside.
For two months, that girl had barely left my son’s side.
Now she was walking away like staying another minute might destroy her.
My name is Laura. My husband, Mark, and I have one son, Daniel.
He’s 23. Emma is 22.
Or I suppose I should say she was Daniel’s girlfriend.
They started dating at 16.
Seven years.
She just became Emma.
She had a stocking at our house for Christmas.
She knew where we kept spare towels.
She helped me cook Thanksgiving dinner.
Her parents came to our barbecue every summer.
When Daniel’s grandmother died, Emma sat beside him through the entire funeral and held his hand.
When Emma got accepted into the university’s dance program, Daniel bought her flowers and acted more excited than she did.
Then Daniel crashed his motorcycle.
He’d wanted that bike since he was a teenager.
I hated it.
Obviously.
I’m his mother.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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