The social worker nodded. “From now on, all medical decisions will require your approval.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt a small sense of control return.
Not relief. Not yet.
But something close.
Later, I sat beside Liam again, holding his hand.
“I found your answers,” I whispered.
The monitors continued their steady rhythm, each beep a fragile promise.
The door opened quietly. Eric stood there, hesitant.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him, exhausted beyond words.
“This isn’t about us,” I said. “It’s about him.”
He nodded, then left without another word.
That night, I stayed by Liam’s side, my hand resting on his arm.
He was still fighting.
And so was I.
Because when he wakes, and I believe with everything in me that he will, he will know this:
His voice mattered.
His fear mattered.
And when he needed me most, I chose to listen.
