And that was the last time I heard my son’s voice — after that, it was only a phone call that turned him into a body surrounded by wires.
By the time I reached the ER, Andrew was already in a coma. I pushed through the double doors, clutching my bag so tightly my nails dug into the leather.
Brendon, my ex-husband, sat hunched in a chair, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. When he looked at me, he felt like a stranger.
“I don’t know what happened,” he repeated. “We were just walking. One moment he was fine, the next he collapsed. I called 911 — they sent an ambulance. I stayed with him the whole time.”
I wanted to believe him, but this wasn’t the first time Brendon had dismissed Andrew’s health issues. He had skipped a follow-up last year and told Andrew not to “baby himself.”
A familiar, unwelcome suspicion twisted in my gut.
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