I slip out without making a sound.
The hallway outside is all harsh hospital lighting and a faint antiseptic smell that clings to my tongue. I move toward the waiting area outside the surgical wing.
Beige walls. Plastic plants. A vending machine humming beside a row of uncomfortable chairs.
Waiting. Thinking. Falling apart in slow motion.
Her surgery is taking longer than they told me it would.
I check my phone again. I don’t know why. The screen stays blank except for a notification from the only person who has reached out: my boss.
Conference call with the Berlin team at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t forget.
My jaw locks. I press the heel of my hand against my chest, pushing down the ache that keeps rising every time I think about how damn alone I am here.
If something had happened—if I’d lost her last night—I would have stood in this same hallway with no one to call, no one to lean on, no one to witness the moment my world collapsed.
Even now, the only person I spoke to was Anna, Mom’s nurse, and she left for home hours ago after making sure I knew exactly what would happen post-surgery. She hugged me before she left, warm and brief, and even that small contact almost shattered me.
I scroll back to Norah’s name. Her number sits there like a pulse.
I tapped out messages between pacing, between talking to doctors, between trying to keep my lungs working. Messages she hasn’t seen. Or has seen and not replied to.
I shouldn’t care. But I do.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
For a moment, my breath snags. I think it might be Norah, but the notification banner shows the hospital’s automated system. My stomach drops.
Then I hear my name—or rather, my mother’s name.
A doctor stands a short distance away, scanning the waiting room with a clipboard in hand. His scrubs have a pale smudge along one thigh, and his hair is tucked behind his ears like he has run his fingers through it multiple times.
“Family of Margaret James?”
I step toward him. “I’m her son. Dorian.”
He nods once. “The surgery went as expected, though it took a little longer because of her bone density. When she lost her balance and went down, she fractured her hip in two places. Calling the ambulance when you did made a huge difference. Any delay and complications would have stacked up fast.”
Something inside me loosens enough that my knees almost give out. I grip the chair beside me until my fingers tingle.
“She’s alive?” My voice comes out rough, low, and strained.
“She’s stable for now,” he says carefully. “We’ve moved her to recovery. She’ll be groggy for a while.” He pauses, his expression tightening. “Her MS is progressing more rapidly than we’d like. I know she has a home nurse, but we need to discuss long-term care options soon. Not this minute. But soon.”
The words land like a blow I half-expected but still can’t brace against.
They want to take my mother out of her home.
I swallow hard. “I’ll talk to her nurse. We’ll figure something out.”
The doctor gives a thoughtful nod. “For now, she’s resting. I’ll come get you once she’s fully moved.”
He walks away, leaving a trail of tension behind him that I inhale like smoke.
The moment he disappears around the corner, everything inside me snaps open.
My throat burns. My vision blurs. The air in my lungs escapes in a jagged rush I can’t control.
