Brad
I hate hospitals. The smell burns my nose, and no matter where you go, it clings to you for hours afterward.
But I’m here for Mia, so the smell is something I can live with.
She sits in the chair beside her mother, eyes closed, cheek resting against the hand she’s holding. Her mother lies still in the bed, tubes coming from every direction, the steady beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor filling the room.
The last time I was in a room like this was when my grandfather was admitted—slowly drifting away while there was nothing I, or the medical staff, could do to stop it. I was the only one who visited him every day for three weeks, until he passed.
Life wasn’t the same after that. I didn’t get over the loss—I just learned how to live with it.
That was the first time I ever cried
