My father was on his back, his glasses crooked across his face, his mouth slightly open.
For a moment, my mind refused to process what I was seeing, and I stared at my mother’s hand, waiting for movement that never came.
“Mom,” I whispered, my voice thin and fragile.
I dropped the grocery bag, and grapes rolled across the floor as I rushed toward her.
Her skin felt cold in a way that triggered panic instantly, and I shook her gently at first, then harder, begging her to wake up.
When she did not respond, I moved to my father and pressed my fingers against his neck, searching desperately for a pulse.
There was something faint, something barely there, and I almost broke down in relief.
I dialed 911 with shaking hands, barely managing to speak clearly as I told the operator what was happening.
The instructions came quickly, telling me to open windows and avoid using anything electrical, and within minutes sirens filled the neighborhood.
Paramedics rushed in, moving efficiently, checking vitals, attaching oxygen masks, and asking about carbon monoxide exposure.
The word hit me like something distant yet suddenly real.