I hesitated, the phone pressed against my ear.
Every instinct told me to refuse, to stay cocooned in the safety of my grief.
The doctor’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“It’s important,” she said.
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me, before agreeing to go.
I hung up and sank deeper into the sofa, my mind racing to piece together what was happening.
The familiar walls felt foreign, as if they were closing in, echoing the uncertainty that now filled the air.
My daughter had left a message for me, the doctor had said.
A final message she had recorded but never shared.
The thought of it both comforted and terrified me.
I stood up, legs shaky beneath me, as I prepared to leave for the clinic.
Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.
The world outside was bright and indifferent, a stark contrast to the somber mood inside me.
I glanced back at the living room one last time before stepping out, the door clicking shut behind me.
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