A nurse named Kara blocked the ICU door with her arm. “Ma’am, you have to stay out here.”
“My daughter is in there,” I said. “She’s five.”
“I know,” Kara said. “We need space.”
A week after the funeral, the hospital called.
I watched strangers rush past me. I watched the door swing inward and then shut.
A few minutes later, a doctor with a calm voice and a clenched jaw stepped into the hallway. His badge said “Dr. Patel.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We did everything we could.”
Daniel’s hand landed on my shoulder, steady. After that, everything felt like a fever dream.
The funeral happened because Daniel made it happen. My sister, Mia, answered the door, stacked the casseroles, and kept telling me, “Just breathe.”
Daniel looked up from his laptop too fast.
Daniel signed forms. Daniel spoke to the hospital. Daniel told me, “Don’t worry. I have it.”
At that moment, I couldn’t even fathom dealing with any of that.
A week after the funeral, the hospital called.
A clerk named Tessa said, “We still have Grace’s belongings. Her clothes. You can pick them up.”
Daniel looked up from his laptop too fast. “I can get them,” he said.
Then he paused. “Actually, maybe you should. For closure.”
At home, I went into Grace’s room and shut the door.
At the hospital, Tessa handed me a clear plastic bag with Grace’s name printed on a label.
Hannah appeared behind the desk and froze when she saw me. She didn’t smile or offer a script. She took the bag from Tessa and pressed it into my hands.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I managed to get into the security feed. I picked up Grace’s clothes for you, too. Check it when you get home.”
