By the time Mom comes back that night, the sky outside the narrow hospital window has gone dark, and the hallway lights cast everything in a dull yellow glow that makes the room feel smaller than it already is.
She walks in carrying a small overnight bag, her shoulders slumped from another long shift, and even though she tries to smile when she sees me sitting upright in bed, I can see the strain etched into her face.
“I brought your jeans and that grey hoodie you like,” she says softly, setting the bag down on the chair.
“Thank you,” I reply, already swinging my legs carefully over the edge of the bed again, because I am determined to get dressed and prove that I am not as fragile as they are treating me.
“Slowly,” she warns automatically, stepping closer to steady me as I stand.
“I’
