Mara POV
We all surge to our feet.
Dr. Leonard’s scrubs are still clean—surgery hasn’t started yet. “The procedure will take approximately five hours,” he says. “The next sixty minutes are critical for prep and anesthesia. Her heart is weak, but she’s young. Strong. If she makes it through induction, the odds are in her favor.”
He leaves. Thank goodness, she's still alive.
The surgical waiting room becomes our prison for the next five hours. There are rows of hard chairs, a small table with old magazines, and a television in the corner that no one is watching. The waiting room smells with antiseptic. The kind of smell that clings to places where people wait for news that could break them.
Hour One: Mom sits with her rosary, fingers moving over the beads, lips moving in silent prayer.
