CLAIRE ANDERSON
The hospital corridor smells like antiseptic and regret, a combination that's become nauseatingly familiar over the past weeks. I walk toward Emily's room with my shoulders hunched, bracing myself for the familiar weight of unpaid bills and the shame of being unable to provide for the woman who raised me. My hands are trembling slightly as I push open the door, and I force myself to smile, to pretend that everything is fine, that I haven't traded my freedom for a year of cold indifference and a man who looks through me like I'm made of glass.
Emily is sitting up in bed, her grey hair loose and wild, her face thinner than I remember. She's been getting stronger, the doctors say, but the worry lines around her eyes have deepened, etched there by the weight of everything sh
