Chapter One -Diana

I couldn’t get the beeping out of my head. Even when I dozed off—what little I could—the sound followed me into my dreams.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And always the strange bellows of the ventilator, inflating and deflating my son with manufactured breaths. A machine was keeping him alive.

How could everything change so fast?

Just yesterday—was it really only yesterday?—he was fishing and playing soccer. Shouting encouragement to his friends as he chased the ball down the field, his blond hair bouncing in the sun. And now? Now his small, pale body lay motionless, the only sign of life the mechanical rise and fall of his chest, courtesy of a machine that whirred and clicked beside him. Tubes protruded from his arms, his nose, even his chest. He looked like an alien science experiment gone sideways.

But I still praised God for every single wire. Every beep. Every breath. If not for the ventilator and the IVs and whatever else was keeping him tethered to this side of eternity, he’d already be gone. The doctors had tried to prepare me for that possibility. More than once.

I stared at my phone but couldn’t bring myself to call his father again. First, I didn’t want to leave Caleb’s side. Second, I didn’t want to hear my own voice say the words out loud. Brooks hadn’t returned my first message anyway, not when I brought Caleb in. Screw him. He’d hear soon enough—mutual friends, family, whatever. He’d be mad. I’d get over it.

The doctors still didn’t even know what was wrong.

I stood next to Caleb’s bed and glanced around the room. It was bleak. No color anywhere, aside from the faint pastel smears in a silver frame above his head that I guessed someone, somewhere, had deemed art. I took his limp hand in mine and pulled the oversized chair closer, settling into my post like I’d done a dozen times already.

I replayed the events in my head. The hours that led up to this.

Yesterday morning, we’d been up early—Caleb still buzzing with end-of-school energy. He’d just graduated from elementary school a few days earlier, complete with caps, gowns, and a whole ceremony. I used to roll my eyes at those things—thought graduation was for high school, college. Not kindergarten, not fifth grade. But now? Now I’d give anything to be back in that moment.

I can still see him—my little guy in his miniature cap and gown, his hand darting up every few seconds to steady the thing as it slipped over his blond mop. He looked like a child playing dress-up in clothes meant for a future version of himself, and yet somehow he wore it with such pride. He was growing up fast, but I caught flickers of the little boy in him—bumping shoulders with his friends, throwing exploding knuckles, smiling with that impish grin.

At the time, I was annoyed. I thought he should be more composed. More serious. But now? God. I would have let him dance down the aisle if he wanted to.

In that quiet moment beside his hospital bed, I struck a deal with God. If Caleb made it through this, if he survived, I’d never again let my short temper steal the sweetness from our time together.

That morning, we’d sat at the table—Pop-Tarts for him, coffee for me. He was full of energy, already planning our day. He insisted we go to the pond across the street to fish. I’d taken the week off from work, with no other plans but to relax. A magazine, toes in the water, sunshine on my face while my boy fished—it sounded like a dream.

He trotted around the edge of the pond like a scout looking for buried treasure. I lounged with my People magazine and pretended I wasn’t watching his every move.

“Mom!