Chapter 5

The subway ride back to the hospital was a blur. I moved through the crowds like a ghost, the city's noise and energy a distant, meaningless hum. The only reality was the ticking clock in my head.

I burst into the emergency room, my eyes scanning for Leo's bed.

A nurse intercepted me, her face a mixture of sympathy and urgency. "Ms. Hopkins, we were just about to call you. He's... he's having another crisis."

She led me through a curtain into a small, private bay. My son was thrashing weakly against the restraints on the bed. His breathing was shallow, a faint rasping sound. The monitor beside him was a frantic symphony of alarm bells.

"Leo," I whispered, rushing to his side. I grabbed his small hand. It was cold.

"Mommy's here, baby. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." I stroked his hair, damp with sweat.

His struggles ceased. His body went still. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes, those beautiful, distant eyes, focused on my face. For the first time in a long time, I knew he was really seeing me.

A flicker of recognition. A moment of clarity in the storm.

And then, the miracle.

"Mama..."

The word was a tiny, fragile breath. A word he had never said before. A sound I had dreamed of hearing for five years.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast. "Yes, baby! It's Mama! Can you say it again?"

I squeezed his hand, my heart soaring with an impossible hope. Maybe this was a breakthrough. Maybe he would be okay.

I fumbled for my phone. I had to tell Franklin. He had to hear this. This would change everything. He would come. He would save him.

The phone rang and rang. Finally, his voice, thick with annoyance.

"Kelsie, this is not a good time."

"Franklin, he spoke!" I sobbed into the phone. "Leo said 'Mama'! He's speaking! You have to come. Please."

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. For a second, I thought I heard a crack in his armor. A flicker of the father he was supposed to be.

"He... he spoke?"

"Yes! Please, Franklin. He needs you. He needs the surgery. I'll do anything. I'll say I was the one who left. You can have everything. Just save him. Please."

I was begging, shamelessly, desperately.

Another voice murmured in the background. Janel. Her tone was sharp, possessive.

Franklin cleared his throat. The moment of humanity, if it had ever been there, was gone.

"I'll... I'll be there as soon as I can," he said, his voice clipped and distant. "I have to handle a few things here first."

A lie. Another lie.

I didn't need to hear any more. I hung up. He wasn't coming.

I turned back to my son. His eyes were still fixed on me.

"Mama..." he whispered again. "I... love... you."

Each word was a monumental effort, a final gift.

And then, his eyes fluttered shut. The hand in mine went limp. The frantic beeping of the heart monitor beside his bed flatlined, replaced by a single, unending, soul-destroying tone.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no, Leo. Baby, wake up. Look at Mommy."

I shook him gently, then harder. "Leo! No!"

Nurses and doctors rushed in, pushing me aside. They worked on him, shouting medical terms I didn't understand. But I knew. I knew it was too late.

He was gone.

My son was gone.

His first words were also his last. And his father had chosen a press conference over hearing them.

The world didn't just go silent. It ended.