I rushed inside, my stomach already in knots.
The house was too quiet.
“Hey?” I called out, dropping my bag. No answer.
Panic crept in as I hurried toward her room. When I pushed the door open, I froze.
She was curled up in bed, flushed and shivering, her small body trembling under the blanket. A glass of water sat untouched beside her, and her phone was on the floor like she had tried to reach it.
“Hey, hey… I’m here,” I whispered, rushing to her side.
Her eyes opened slightly. “You came back…” she murmured, her voice weak.
That hit me harder than anything.
I checked her temperature—still high. Guilt washed over me instantly. I had left. I had chosen work over a sick child who had no one else in that moment.
Without thinking, I grabbed my keys, wrapped her in a blanket, and took her straight to the hospital.
I stayed with her the entire night.
At one point, she held my hand and didn’t let go—even in her sleep.
And that’s when it changed.
I had always told myself I wasn’t her mom.
But sitting there, watching over her, terrified something could happen… I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before.
Maybe I wasn’t her mom.
But in that moment, I was exactly who she needed.
