Still, he never disappeared.
Whenever possible, he went to the hospital after school. He brought Lily snacks, helped with assignments, watched terrible movies beside her bed, and sat quietly when she was too tired to speak.
That morning, as he zipped the bag, I asked, “You’re heading there after school again?”
“She had a difficult treatment yesterday,” he replied. “I promised I’d come by.”
I nodded.
“Please tell Diane I’m thinking of her. I sent her a message last night, but she didn’t say much.”
Aaron hesitated.
“She’s exhausted, Mom.”
“I know.”
But something had been troubling me.
Diane’s messages had become shorter over the previous few weeks. Long conversations had turned into single sentences. Sometimes she responded with nothing more than a heart, a thumbs-up, or a brief “okay.”
I tried not to take it personally.
She was sleeping in hospital chairs, speaking with doctors, managing medications, and trying to remain strong for her daughter. She did not owe anyone cheerful conversation.
