Later, the doctor found me in the waiting room. “We’re adjusting Andrew’s treatment plan. You did the right thing, Olivia. There’s reason to hope.”
Back in Andrew’s room, I took his hand, the monitors tracing hope and fear in soft lights.
“I found your answers, honey.”
By nightfall, Brendon stood quietly at the doorway.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. For everything.”
I looked up, exhausted but clear. “We were both scared. But Andrew comes first.”
He nodded and left without another word.
I curled into the chair beside my son, my hand resting on his arm. My son was still fighting — and so was I.
If — no, when Andrew wakes up, he’ll know I chose him. Someone tried to teach him that his fear didn’t matter. I won’t let that lesson stay.
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