Cora
I hadn’t realized how I’d been holding my breath until the surgeon stepped into the room. His expression was calm and composed. Blessedly not grim. My legs nearly gave out from under me.
“The surgery was successful,” he said. “Riley’s stable. He’s resting now. You’ll be able to see him shortly.”
I collapsed into the chair behind me, hands trembling as I buried my face in them. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the tears slide down my cheeks and onto my palms.
Relief, pure and blinding, washed over me in waves.
I had spent every second in that waiting room torn between hope and sheer panic, praying to whatever higher power would listen that my son, my heart, would come back to me whole.
And he had.
For hours afterward, I watched his chest rise and fall in soft
