Grace’s Door Slides Open
The fluorescent lights hum above us as the doors to the operating wing swing shut.
Caleb’s hand is a cold slab against mine, his thumb rubbing the knuckles of my wrist.
“Emily, stay right here,” he whispers, his voice a thread barely louder than the murmur of nurses.
Behind the glass, Grace lies on a steel table, a thin blanket covering her shoulders.
The antiseptic scent hits me like a wave, sharp and metallic.
“She’s stable for now,” a doctor says, his eyes flicking to the monitors.
“Twins are still fragile,” another adds, the word fragile hanging heavy.
My throat tightens; I can hear my own breathing over the soft beeping.
Caleb’s stare never leaves Grace’s face, his jaw clenched as if he could will the surgery to end.
“She’s a fighter,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
He nods, but his eyes are glassy, reflecting the ceiling tiles.
“She always was,” I mutter, remembering the promise I’d made her on the swing set.
A nurse tips a tray of instruments toward us, the stainless steel glinting.
“We’ll be in touch,” the surgeon murmurs, stepping away.
The hallway feels endless, the walls echoing the distant thump of a heart monitor.
Caleb squeezes my hand, a brief anchor in the swirl of fear.
“Emily, I’m right here,” he says, though his voice sounds distant.
I swallow, feeling the weight of every unanswered question settle on my shoulders.
The doors close with a soft thud, sealing us in a room that suddenly feels too small.
