Chapter 3: The Last Goodbye

The words didn't register at first. Worsened. As if there was a scale I should understand, as if there were degrees of dying I could measure against each other.

"What do you mean worsened?" I stood up, my legs unsteady beneath me. "He was in surgery. You said you were doing everything you could."

The doctor, the one with kind eyes who had just told me my parents' accident wasn't an accident, gestured urgently toward the corridor. "We need to move quickly. His bleeding has increased. We need your permission to perform an emergency procedure."

Adrian's hand found the small of my back, grounding me. I could feel him there, solid and present, even as the room seemed to tilt sideways.

I hurried after the doctor, struggling to keep pace. My fingers curled tightly around the strap of my bag. "What kind of procedure?" The question slipped out automatically. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. "Will it save him? What are his chances?”

The doctor's hesitation was already an answer.

"The truth is, Mrs. Whitmore, the injuries are extensive. The procedure is our best option, but I won't lie to you, the survival rate with injuries this severe is low."

Low. The word hung in the air between us like a guillotine blade.

"But is there still a chance?" I needed him to say yes. I needed there to be a world in which my father walked out of this hospital. "Is there still a chance he could survive?"

"There's always a chance," the doctor said carefully. "But you need to understand the reality of what we're facing."

Adrian squeezed my hand. I gripped it back so hard I felt him wince, but he didn't let go.

We reached a small consultation room. The doctor placed a clipboard in front of me. Forms, signatures. Authorization for them to cut into my father's body, to try to save a life that might already be slipping away.

"Sign here," the doctor said quietly. "And initial here."

I lowered the pen to the paper, but the tip skidded across the line. I tightened my grip and tried again, forcing my fingers to cooperate.

Hot tears blurred my vision. I wiped at them with trembling fingers, but more followed. "Please don't let anything go wrong. Please, I'm begging." I swallowed hard. "Please do all you can to save my father. Please.”

"Of course," the doctor said.

I signed my name three times. Each signature felt like a piece of my heart being cut away.

Adrian wrapped his arms around me from behind as I finished. His chin rested on top of my head, and I could feel his chest rising and falling against my back. He was still here. He hadn't left.

"He's going to fight," Adrian said softly. "Your father is a fighter, Elena."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in miracles and second chances and the kind of endings where everyone lived and went home and had time to say the things that mattered.

Instead, I nodded and let him lead me back to the waiting area.

Time became meaningless. Minutes stretched into hours or collapsed into seconds, I couldn't tell anymore. Adrian sat beside me, his arm never leaving my shoulders. Sometimes I leaned into him. Sometimes I sat rigid, every muscle tensed, as if staying perfectly still might somehow keep my father alive.

A nurse approached us around four o'clock. Her face was gentle, which terrified me.

"Your mother's awake," she said. "She's been asking for you. It's brief, but you can see her."

Adrian helped me stand on legs that didn't feel like they belonged to me. We followed the nurse down another corridor, through another set of doors, into a room that smelled like machines and medicine and fear.

My mother lay in the hospital bed, her head bandaged, her left arm in a cast. But her eyes, her eyes were open and they found me immediately.

"Mum." The word broke as I said it. I moved to her side, taking her right hand carefully, afraid she might shatter if I held too tightly. "You're awake. Thank God. How do you feel?"

"Elena." Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. She tried to smile but winced instead. "Your father?"

"He's in surgery. They're trying to help him. He's going to be okay."

The lie tasted like ash.

My mother's grip on my hand tightened. Her eyes were suddenly alert, sharp in a way that contradicted her injuries.

"No," she said urgently. "No, Elena, listen to me. I need to tell you something. Before—"

"Don't talk, Mum. Just rest. You need to conserve your energy."

"Someone," she continued, her voice growing more frantic. "Someone... The accident… Your father realized..."

A nurse appeared, her movements quick and purposeful. "I'm sorry, she needs to rest. The medication is making her confused. Family can return later."

"She's not confused," I said, gripping my mother's hand harder. "Mum, what are you talking about? Tell me."

But my mother's eyes were already closing, her body giving in to exhaustion and pain and the heavy pull of whatever drugs were flowing through her veins.

"Someone," she whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "Someone."

"No, wait. Mum, stay with me. Stay awake. What did you mean? Who—"

The nurse gently but firmly guided me away from the bed. Adrian stood in the doorway, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He'd heard what my mother said, and something about the way he was standing, the way he was looking at the floor instead of at me, made my stomach drop.

"Adrian?"

He looked up, and for just a moment, I saw panic flash across his face. Real panic. The kind of fear that comes from knowing something terrible.

Then he reached for me, pulled me close, and held me like I might disappear if he let go.

We walked back to the surgical waiting area in silence. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. My mother's words echoed in my mind. Someone… Someone...

Adrian's phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

It buzzed again and again.

Finally, he pulled it out. His face went pale as he looked at the screen. Multiple messages, multiple missed calls. All from Margaret.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly, turning the phone off. "It's nothing."

But his hands were shaking.

We sat back down in the waiting area. The same plastic chairs. The same magazines from last year. The same feeling of time suspended, of holding your breath while someone you love fought for their life behind closed doors.

He rubbed a hand across his face, but it lingered there for a moment. When he lowered it, his fingers wouldn't stay still.

An hour passed. Then two.

Around six o'clock, a surgeon emerged from the operating room. He was still wearing his mask, his surgical cap. He pulled the mask down slowly, deliberately.

He walked toward me, and with each step, I felt something inside me begin to shatter.

Adrian's arm tightened around my shoulders.

The surgeon's eyes were kind. That made it worse.

He sat down in front of us, took a breath, and said the words that would split my life into before and after:

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. We did everything we could.”