The call came in the middle of the night, and before I even answered, I knew something wasn’t right.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what I would find waiting at the hospital.
My name is Maren. I’m 47. My son Leo is 19, and for most of my life, it has been just the two of us.
He’s grown now, taller than me, voice deeper, but he still kisses my cheek before he leaves and says, “Love you, Mom,” like he means it.
That night, though, something felt… different.
At 1:08 a.m., my phone rang.