I gripped the bed rail and focused on the rise and fall of Liam’s chest. It was mechanical and unnatural, but it was something.
Eric began to cry again, loud and raw, but I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him. Something about it felt misplaced, as though he were trying too hard to prove something.
I leaned closer to Liam and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “You’re not alone.”
My mind replayed his last message to me.
Love you, Mom. See you at dinner.
Eric stepped closer.
“He was fine,” he insisted. “We were just talking about baseball. He wanted to practice pitching later. He didn’t say anything was wrong.”
I turned to him, my voice low but firm.
“Did he mention dizziness? Chest pain? Anything at all?”
He shook his head too quickly. “No. Nothing like that. He just tripped.”
Just tripped.
The words hung in the air, thin and unconvincing.
I held his gaze, searching for something—truth, guilt, anything—but all I saw was fear.
“If there’s more you’re not telling me,” I said quietly, “the doctors need to know.”
“I told you everything,” he replied, his jaw tightening.
A nurse entered then, her tone gentle but firm. Visiting hours were over. We both needed rest.
Eric grabbed his jacket.
