I lay in my hospital bed pretending the morphine had knocked me out, when my husband leaned close and whispered, “When she’s gone, everything is OURS.”
I lay perfectly still, letting the morphine soften my breathing and slacken my limbs, pretending it had taken me completely under. It hadn’t. The room smelled of antiseptic and something metallic, like fear disguised as cleanliness. Machines hummed. My heart monitor kept steady time. And through the haze, I heard Ethan lean close to my…
