The doctor, a woman with weary eyes and a soft voice, found me beside Andrew’s bed.
“We’re running tests,” she said gently. “Andrew is unresponsive, and his heart did stop briefly, but we revived him. He’s in a coma, and we’re still trying to determine why. Every hour is critical.”
“You have his records? His medical history?” I asked.
She nodded reassuringly.
I stood there gripping the bed rail, listening to the constant beeping of the monitors. The world narrowed to the rise and fall of my son’s chest.
Brendon cried loudly, raw and broken, but something about it felt off. It seemed rehearsed, as if he were building an alibi with tears.
I knelt beside Andrew, brushing his forehead.
“I’m right here, baby,” I whispered. “You don’t have to be brave alone — not anymore.”
In that silence, I remembered his final text to me:
“Love you, Mom. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Brendon stepped closer.
“He was fine, Olivia. We just walked around the block. He didn’t say anything was wrong.”
I kept my tone steady. “Brendon, did he say he felt dizzy or had chest pain before he collapsed?”
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