For years afterward I carried his words inside me like a permanent wound, and every sleepless night I repeated them until they sounded like truth.
I moved into a small apartment in Ashbrook, a coastal city far enough away that nobody knew my past, and I tried to survive through therapy, part time jobs, and long silent walks that never actually quieted my mind.
Ryan remarried within a year to a woman named Brooke Sinclair, and I disappeared into a life that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Eventually I convinced myself Mason’s death had been tragic but natural, something cruel but not intentional, and that belief was the only thing that kept me breathing.
Six years later, on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, my phone rang and the caller ID showed the hospital where my son had died.
My hands started shaking before I even answered, and when I finally said hello, a woman’s careful voice said, “Mrs. Hayes, this is Dr. Monroe from neonatal care, and we need to speak with you about your son’s records.”
I sat down slowly and whispered, “It has been six years, so what could possibly be left to say,” and the silence on the other end told me everything before she spoke again.