“Mom… Dad is waiting for you to die. Please don’t wake up.”
That was the first thing I heard after twelve days of darkness.
Not sleep. Not rest.
Darkness.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t open my eyes.
Even breathing felt like it hurt.
But I knew that voice.
“Ethan…”
My son.
Nine years old.
Crying next to my hospital bed, holding my hand like he used to when he was scared.
“Mom… if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please.”
I tried.
God, I tried.
But nothing moved.
A nurse walked in, talking about my vitals, the IV, the miracle that I was still alive.
They kept saying the same thing:
“She lost control of the car.”
But I didn’t remember losing control.
The last thing I remembered was Ryan—my husband—sliding papers across the table.
“Just sign, Emily. It protects our assets.”
I said no.
That night, my brakes failed.
The door opened again.
Ethan quickly let go of my hand.
“You again?” Ryan said sharply. “I told you she can’t hear you.”
“I just wanted to see her.”
“Go sit with your aunt.”
Aunt Claire.
My sister.
The one who used to protect me.
Her heels clicked into the room.
“Let him stay,” she said. “The notary will be here soon.”
“The doctor already said it,” Ryan replied coldly. “I’m not wasting money on a body that won’t wake up.”
A body.
That’s what I was to them.
“My mom is coming back!” Ethan cried.
Ryan let out a quiet laugh.
