Every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, my mom calls to make sure I’m awake. It’s our ritual — her cheerful voice, my half-asleep “I’m up,” and her usual reminder to eat something before work.
But one morning, she called and said nothing. No words. Just breath — ragged, shallow breath.
“Mom?” I asked, sitting straight up. “Mom, can you hear me?”
Nothing. Only the sound of air moving in and out, uneven and scared.
I grabbed my keys and drove like every light was green. Her front door was unlocked. I kept her on the line, following the sound of her breathing through the house until I found her upstairs — perched on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping her chest, eyes wide with panic.
“I couldn’t move,” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened.”
I eased her onto the pillows and called 911. The paramedics arrived within minutes. “Minor heart attack,” one said. “You called just in time.”
She spent three days in the hospital. I brought soup, her favorite blanket, and magazines she never opened. She was alive — but something in her had shifted. A quietness, like she was living somewhere slightly out of reach.
One night, as the heart monitor blinked beside her, she turned to the window and said softly, “I’ve been keeping a secret. I’ll tell you when I’m home.”
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