When the doctor walked into the waiting room that morning, I braced myself for more of the same—updates about monitoring, small shifts in vitals, vague reassurances that we needed to “wait and see.” That had been the script for nearly three months, ever since my mother, Margaret, slipped into a coma after the car accident. But this time, his expression was different. He looked at me with a softness I hadn’t seen before and said words that nearly knocked the air out of me.
“She’s awake. Your mother is awake.”
For a moment, my brain shut down. Julia, my wife, squeezed my hand, but I barely felt it. Those words echoed through me like a prayer I’d given up on: She’s awake.
I ran down the hallway, my heart hammering in my chest, and pushed into the ICU room. There she was, propped up against pillows, her skin pale but her hazel eyes wide open, alive, and focused on me.
“Mom,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’re back.”
Her lips trembled into a faint smile. “Hi, Oliver.”
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