“I’ll go home,” he said. “Call me if anything changes.”
I didn’t answer.
When the room finally fell silent, I pulled a chair close to Liam’s bed and sat beside him. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than anything else.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” I murmured, over and over again.
That was when I noticed his hand.
It was clenched tightly, resting against the sheet. At first, I thought it was just muscle tension, but something about it felt deliberate.
Carefully, I pried his fingers open.
Inside was a small, crumpled piece of paper.
My heart started to race.
I unfolded it slowly, my hands trembling.
The handwriting was unmistakably his.
Mom, open my closet for the answers. BUT DON’T TELL DAD.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
A chill ran through me as I read the words again.
Don’t tell Dad.
Why?
I leaned close to his ear, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay. I promise. I’ll find out.”
The nurse assured me Liam was stable for the moment and encouraged me to go home and rest. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I needed answers, and the note had already told me where to look.
