The Parker household had become too quiet — not the kind of quiet one associates with rest, peace, or comfort, but the heavy silence of sorrow, the type that draped itself over every corner of the house like an unwelcome shadow.
Sarah Parker sat slouched in the nursery doorway, staring blankly at the crib that held her infant son, Noah. Her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea that had long gone cold. She hadn’t taken a sip in hours; the drink was more of an anchor than a comfort.
Noah had been born two months too early. The doctors had tried to prepare Sarah and her husband, Michael, for what that meant — complications, delays, maybe disabilities. But nothing could have prepared them for the words that eventually became routine, repeated by white-coated professionals until they lost all meaning.
“He may never move.”
“He shows no responses to external stimuli.”
“Prepare yourselves for the possibility of a vegetative state.”
Every sentence was delivered clinically, devoid of emotion, as though detachment softened the devastating truth. But for Sarah, the words pierced deeper each time. The woman who once believed hope was eternal no longer cried; tears felt wasted on something the doctors assured them was impossible.