"Mom," I whisper, my voice breaking as I step closer to her.
"Helen," she replies, barely audible — her voice is a soft wisp, like a fading candle flame.
Lying in that hospital bed, my mother looks like a shadow of the woman I once knew — fragile and thinned by pain. Yet, somehow, she still carries the same graceful beauty. Even now, her presence fills the room with warmth.
"I thought we lost you," I murmur, tears brimming in my eyes.
Her trembling fingers find their way to my cheek, brushing softly against my skin. The touch I feared I might never feel again.
"Oh baby," she says, struggling through her words. "I'm so sorry for scaring you." Her gaze shifts slowly, lovingly, toward my father as she reaches out a delicate hand.
Dad leans in immediately, gently taking her hand in his. His smile is calm but strained, as if holding back all the worry he's refused to show.
