Now I knew it was all a lie.
Seven days ago, I watched my beautiful daughter wheeled out of the operating room under a white sheet.
"We're sorry, Mrs. James. There was a complication during surgery. We did everything we could."
In that moment, it felt like a massive hand had reached into my chest and torn my heart clean in half. The pain was so sharp I couldn't breathe.
With trembling hands, I slowly lifted the sheet. I touched her cold little face, and the tears I'd been holding back flooded out.
I pressed my cheek against hers. My eyes went hollow. My arms locked around her thin, small body and would not let go.
My daughter had always been healthy. How could a minor surgery go wrong?
The odds of a complication were almost nonexistent. Why did it have to be my daughter?
The medical staff tried to wheel her away. I threw myself at the gurney like a woman possessed, my voice so raw it barely made a sound. "Don't take her! Give me back my daughter..."
I pulled out my phone to call Guy, who was supposed to be in a meeting. He could fix this. He could bring her back.
I called ninety-nine times. He didn't pick up once.
Finally, on the hundredth call, he answered.