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.
“You’ll stay, right?” Noah asked softly, his voice a thin thread of worry.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied, brushing the hair from his forehead. “I promise.”
