Mia
Mom’s been doing well.
Really well.
The doctors say her progress is better than expected. She’s off most of the monitors now, walking short distances with help, and already complaining about how bored she is—which somehow feels like the best sign of all.
This morning, she’s sitting up in bed, hair brushed, hospital tray pushed aside, flipping through a magazine like she hasn’t just survived something that nearly killed her.
I’m perched in the chair beside her, pretending to read my phone while actually watching her chest rise and fall for the hundredth time.
“You know,” she says casually, not looking up, “you’re pacing again.”
I stop mid-step. “I am not.”
She peers over the magazine. “You absolutely are.”
I sigh and drop back into the chair. “I just… don’t want to leave yet.”
