CINNAMON
Eight o’clock in the morning arrived with the soft glow of a California sunrise.
We stood outside Mom’s room, me, Dante, and Khloe, watching through the glass partition. She looked so small in that hospital bed, oxygen mask covering her face, monitors beeping. Her chest rose and fell. Proof she was still here. Still fighting.
But for how long?
Tears slipped down my cheeks again. I didn’t bother wiping them away anymore.
Dante’s hand found the small of my back.
“She’s getting the best care possible,” he said softly.
“I know.” My voice came out broken. “I just… I don’t know how to prepare for losing her.”
“You don’t,” Khloe said from my other side, her own eyes red. “You just love her while she’s here.”
We stood there in silence, three people bound together by grief and hop
