The nights are the hardest. When the hospital corridor grows quiet and the world outside keeps spinning like nothing is wrong, the fear creeps in. I pray like I’ve never prayed before — raw, desperate prayers with tears streaming down my face. I bargain with God. I thank Him for every single day we’ve had. I beg Him for more.
I would trade places in a heartbeat. I would take every needle, every wave of pain, every terrifying unknown if it meant my child could smile again without effort. But I can’t. All I can do is be here. Stroke their hair. Sing the lullabies they loved as a baby. Tell them stories about all the beautiful things waiting for them when they get better — the park, the beach, ice cream on sunny days, and running freely again.
My heart feels shattered into a million pieces, yet somehow it keeps beating — only for them. Every breath they take is a victory. Every time they open their eyes and look at me, even weakly, I feel a rush of love so powerful it hurts.
