But nothing happened.
No calls.
No texts.
Just silence.
I told myself that meant they had figured something else out. Maybe another donor had been found. Maybe the doctors were trying new treatments. Maybe my husband was too busy at the hospital to deal with me.
Two weeks passed before guilt finally pushed me to drive home.
I told myself I was just checking in.
Just seeing how things were going.
But the moment I stepped inside the house, my stomach dropped.
The living room walls were covered in drawings.
Dozens of them.
Maybe hundreds.
Messy, uneven sketches taped up with pieces of white medical tape. Crayon marks ran across the paper like storms of color.
Stick figures with giant heads.
A tall man.
A smaller boy.
And next to them, a woman with long hair.
Above every drawing, written in shaky letters, was the same word.
“Mom.”
My throat tightened.
I walked closer, noticing how the drawings changed slightly from one to the next. In some, the boy was holding the woman’s hand. In others, they stood in front of a house. One showed the three figures beneath a huge yellow sun.
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