At The Hospital, Waiting For My Son’s Surgery Results, My Brother Texted Dad’s 60th Tonight — Don’t
The surgeon’s name badge kept flashing in the fluorescent lights every time she turned past the double doors. I sat in the plastic chair by the vending machine with Liam’s backpack under my feet and his stuffed dinosaur in my lap. My coffee had gone cold.
My hands were shaking so badly I had to wrap both around the cup to keep it steady. My phone buzzed. Family group chat.
Dad’s 60th at 7, with a stream of confetti emojis and a blurry picture of the restaurant’s private room. I had booked that room, paid the deposit, picked the menu. I should have muted the chat.
I didn’t. Evan, my brother: Dad’s 60th tonight. Don’t bring your kid.
He’ll ruin the vibe. There were quick hearts from our cousins, a “true” from my sister Jenna, then Tori—my sister-in-law. Adults only.
We want Dad to relax. Underneath that, Aunt Pam posted a boomerang of Evan’s boys in party hats bouncing on her couch. I stared at the words, “Don’t bring your kid.”
Not Liam, not his name.
Your kid, like he was a coat I could leave in the car. My throat tightened in that way it does when you’re trying not to cry or yell. I could feel my pulse in my ears.
I typed, “Understood.” I put my phone face down. Across the hall, a TV was playing a daytime talk show with the volume way too high. A nurse I knew from nights gave me a sympathetic smile and slid a granola bar onto the seat beside me.
“He’s still in recovery,” she whispered. “They’ll be out soon.”
Two hours later, the surgeon came out, cap line still on her forehead. “Appendix was inflamed but intact,” she said, calm and brisk.
“We caught it early. He’s stable. He’s doing great.”
My whole body exhaled—stable, great, not ruined, not a problem.
I thanked her, then stayed there for a minute with my eyes closed, the dinosaur pressed to my chest, feeling my heart finally slow down. Then I picked up my phone and made one call. I’m Becca, 37, Columbus, Ohio, RN on nights at Riverside.
I’m good with charts and deadlines, and I’ve always been good with money—not because I’m rich, but because I can make a budget stick. I’m a single mom to Liam, nine. He’s the kind of kid who says, “Excuse me,” even when he doesn’t need to, and he sleeps with the window cracked for the sound of the wind.
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