I push through the hospital doors and head straight to reception.
“My son was admitted this morning. Alfie Westland.”
The receptionist types quickly.
“Yes, he’s on the children’s ward. Second floor. Lift to your right.”
“Thank you.”
I am already moving before she finishes.
The lift takes too long.
Everything takes too long.
When the doors open I walk fast down the corridor, following the signs, the quiet hum of machines, the strange calm hospitals seem to settle into after visiting hours.
I slow when I reach the bay one of the nurses pointed me to.
Not deliberately.
My body just does it.
Because I can hear her before I see her.
Ava is singing.
Softly. Not performing. Just… singing. Like she is filling the quiet rather than breaking it.
I don’t even recognise the song. Something gentle. Something old. Her voice is not trained but it is warm and careful and completely focused on one small boy.
I step closer and look through the small gap in the curtain.
Alfie is asleep.
His arm is in the blue cast. There is a small dressing near his hairline. His cheeks are still slightly blotchy from earlier tears but he is fast asleep now, breathing slow and even.
Ava is sitting pulled right up to the bed.
One hand is resting in his hair, her fingers moving slowly like she does not even realise she is doing it anymore. The other is loosely holding his hand.
She keeps singing even though he is already asleep.
Something in my chest goes very quiet.
She is not trying to prove anything.
She is not trying to impress me.
She is just looking after my kid like it is the most natural thing in the world.
I must shift my weight because she looks up.
For a second she just stares at me like she is making sure I am actually there.
Then she smiles.
Soft. Tired. Relieved.
