Rowan stayed at the hospital as much as he could, his presence a steady reassurance in a situation that otherwise felt out of control. He looked exhausted most of the time, the kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to hold too many things together at once, but he never complained. He just sat beside me, talked when I was awake, and held my hand in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
Maris showed up too.
At first, I was grateful. She brought food, helped coordinate things at home, picked up groceries, and told anyone who would listen that she was stepping in to make sure everything didn’t fall apart while I was in the hospital. From the outside, it looked generous, even selfless.
And maybe that’s why what she did next felt so difficult to process.
The message came on a morning that had started like any other since the surgery—slow, slightly disorienting, anchored by the quiet hum of hospital equipment and the occasional interruption of nurses checking vitals or adjusting medication. My phone was resting on the tray beside me, and when it buzzed, I almost ignored it, assuming it was another routine notification or a work email I wasn’t ready to deal with yet.
