Chapter 6: Milo

•Lisa•

By the time the taxi stopped outside the hospital, my fingers had gone numb from holding the envelope. I paid the driver without waiting for my change and hurried through the sliding glass doors, my eyes fixed on the pediatric wing. People brushed past me, nurses pushed stretchers down the corridor, and announcements echoed overhead, but none of it slowed me down. Every second felt borrowed.

The elevator took too long.

I pressed the button again even though I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. When the doors finally opened, I stepped inside and stared at the changing numbers, willing them to move faster. The scratch on my cheek stung every time I breathed, but it was nothing compared to the ache growing inside my chest.

The doors opened again.

I walked quickly down the hallway until I reached Milo’s room. My hand stopped on the doorknob for a moment. I closed my eyes, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed the door open.

The room brightened before I even stepped inside.

“Mommy.”

Milo was sitting upright on the bed, hugging the stuffed wolf I had won for him at a carnival two years ago. It had lost one button eye and most of its fur had flattened from being carried everywhere, but he still refused to sleep without it.

The moment he saw me, he smiled.

A real smile.

Not the kind children forced because they thought it would make their parents feel better.

My shoulders finally relaxed.

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around him, breathing in the familiar scent of baby shampoo and hospital soap. His body felt lighter than it should have. Even through the blanket, I could feel how thin he had become.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

He nodded against my shoulder.

“I knew you’d come.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him.

His cheeks had lost more color since yesterday, and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, but they still held the same warmth every time they met mine.

Then his attention shifted.

His little fingers reached toward my face.

He didn’t ask permission.

He simply touched the cut on my cheek as gently as if he were afraid it would break beneath his fingertips.

His smile disappeared.

I caught his hand before he could worry any longer.

“It’s nothing.”

His eyes stayed on the scratch.

“You got hurt.”

“I bumped into something at work.”

He looked at me for another second.

Children believed what they wanted to believe.

Mike had learned far too early that grown-ups sometimes smiled to hide the truth.

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he slipped his hand into mine and squeezed it.

I squeezed back.

The door opened quietly behind us.

The doctor walked in carrying a file while two nurses followed with calm, practiced expressions. He greeted me with a nod before opening the folder and explaining the procedure one last time.

I listened carefully.

Every sentence sounded familiar because I had heard it before.

The surgery carried risks.

Recovery would take time.

There were no guarantees.

When he placed the consent forms in front of me, I signed every page without stopping. My name looked steadier on paper than I felt inside.

The doctor collected the documents and gave me a reassuring smile.

“We’ll take good care of him.”

I thanked him softly.

After he left, silence settled over the room again.

Mike watched me tuck the envelope of money into my handbag.

His eyes lingered there.

He was only four.

He shouldn’t have understood why money mattered so much.

Yet he had seen enough hospital visits to know that every appointment ended with papers, worried faces, and bills I tried to hide from him.

He leaned closer and rested his head against my arm.

I stroked his hair slowly.

The strands curled around my fingers just like they had when he was a baby.

Back then, I believed I could protect him from everything.

Now I was praying I could protect him from one more day.

A gentle knock interrupted my thoughts.

One of the nurses entered with a wheelchair.

“It’s time.”

The words settled heavily inside the room.

I helped Milo sit up.

He hugged his stuffed wolf before placing it carefully on the pillow.

“I’ll leave him here,” he said. “He’ll be waiting when I come back.”

I smiled, even though my vision had started to blur.

“I think he’d like that.”

He climbed into the wheelchair with the nurse’s help.

His feet couldn’t quite reach the floor.

I knelt in front of him and straightened the blanket over his legs, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t really matter.

My hands refused to leave.

I memorized everything.

The tiny scar beneath his chin.

The way one lock of hair always fell over his forehead.

The little dimple that appeared whenever he smiled.

He reached up and brushed away the tear that escaped before I could stop it.

His fingers were warm.

“You promised.”

I blinked.

“What did I promise?”

“You said brave people don’t cry before big battles.”

A laugh escaped through my tears.

“I remember.”

He smiled again.

“So you have to be brave too.”

I nodded because my voice wouldn’t come.

The nurse began pushing the wheelchair toward the hallway.

I walked beside them until we reached the operating room.

The large doors stood closed.

Bright lights spilled through the narrow glass windows.

The nurse stopped.

“This is as far as you can go.”

I crouched in front of Milo one last time.

I kissed his forehead and held his face between my hands.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

He didn’t ask if I would leave.

He already knew the answer.

He simply gave me a small nod that carried more trust than I deserved.

The nurse wheeled him forward.

He looked back once.

Then again.

He kept waving until the doors slowly closed between us.

The red light above the entrance flickered on.

I stood there without moving.

My hands were clasped so tightly together that my nails dug into my skin.

Minutes slipped by.

Families came and went around me.

Some cried.

Some prayed.

Some stared at the same closed doors I was staring at.

None of them noticed the two men standing farther down the corridor.

They looked like ordinary visitors.

One leaned casually against the wall while the other pretended to scroll through his phone.

Neither looked in my direction for long.

Neither spoke to me.

After watching me for several minutes, one of them stepped away and made a call.

“The Alpha was right,” he said quietly. “She came straight here.”

He listened.

“Yes. The child is real.”

Another pause.

“The boy has already gone into surgery.”

He lowered the phone and disappeared into the crowd with his companion before I ever noticed they had been there.

I remained outside the operating room, staring at the closed doors.

Behind them, my little boy was fighting for his life.