The kind you’d find in an old toolbox or behind a drawer in a forgotten desk.
“What is this? What do you mean, from Dad?”
“Dad gave it to me before the surgery,” he said. “He told me to keep it safe and only use it after Grandpa died. He said we’d need to go to his house.”
I froze. The memory of that hospital room six years ago rushed back. Michael was lying in bed, his skin pale, his words slow. We had both known the risks. Fifty-fifty, the doctors had said. It was honestly a coin flip.
But we had to take it because, as our only option, we hoped to save his life. Without it, doctors said he’d have less than a year to live.
We lost.
And with him went everything: the life we had built, the plans we made, even the savings. My poor husband had been diagnosed with a medical condition that required him to undergo complicated brain surgery, but he didn’t survive.
After the funeral, I found myself neck-deep in debt. I had to work two jobs and back-to-back shifts just to keep the lights on and food on the table. I never told Kiran how bad it got. I wanted him to feel like he still had a childhood. But there were days when I came home and just sat in the car crying before I could face him.
My precious son never complained despite not having what other kids had, but I gave all I could. He never asked for more than what I could provide. And now, at 16, he was taller than me and quieter than ever. He’d inherited his father’s calm, thoughtful nature.
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