When my eyes open, I find myself sprawled over an armchair. I blink to adjust to the faint light in the room, my instincts urging me to get to my feet and run across the hallway to check on Mom. But it is the figure of Dave, sleeping on the sofa across the suite, his cheek pressed against his hand, that stops me.
It takes a moment for the details to click—the quiet luxury of the suite, the plush couch, and the faint hum of the air conditioner. I remember now. After Jude left, Dad and I were approached by a poised woman, Mrs. Carter, the hospital’s VIP services administrator. She apologized for the delay, acknowledging Dad’s role as an investor before she assured us that a private family suite was ready for us to rest in while we waited for updates on Mom.
Dad had barely said a word, but
