“Ever since he married that girl, my son has been a completely different person, he doesn’t even recognize the woman who gave birth to him anymore.”
A week ago, those words would have cut me to the bone.
But that day, standing in that room, they meant absolutely nothing.
“Shut your mouth,” I said, my voice quiet but dangerous.
She looked at me as if I had just slapped her across the face.
“Mark, how can you say that to your own mother?”
“Don’t you ever call me that again,” I replied.
Her face shifted, the tears vanished for a fraction of a second, and a flash of pure, cold rage replaced them before she quickly put her mask back on.
The officer saw it, and I could tell by the way he took a note that he saw exactly what I saw.
At that moment, the doctor’s pager beeped, and he looked at me.
“Mr. Evans, your wife has regained consciousness.”
I didn’t even look at them, I just ran down the hall.
Amy was sitting up in bed, an IV drip hooked into her arm, her lips still badly swollen and cracked.
She looked so fragile that I felt like I was going to fall apart, so I walked over and took her hand in mine.
“I’m here, Amy,” I whispered.
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