She doesn’t answer. But I see her shoulders relax slightly, some of the tension draining out of her.
“Go to sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She closes her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, deepens. She’s asleep.
I wait.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
When I’m sure she’s deeply under, I ease out of the hospital bed and cross the room silently. I look down at her curled in the chair, her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, her hands tucked under her chin.
She insisted on the chair. Stubborn as always, even when she’s exhausted. I let her have her small rebellion so she could pretend she’s maintaining some kind of boundary.
But I’m done pretending.
I bend and slide my arms beneath her, one under her knees, one around her back. She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, but she doesn’t wake. Her head falls against my shoulder like it belongs there.
I carry her back to the bed and settle her against the pillows, and climb in beside her.
She turns toward me instinctively, her hand finding my chest, her body curving into mine like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
I’ve imagined it a thousand times. Her body soft against mine and curling into me for comfort.
I wrap my arm around her, pull her closer, and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, they’re going to cut me open, and I might die on an operating table.
But tonight, I have her in my arms, and our son is sleeping in the next bed, and for the first time in five years, I feel something like peace.
The surgical teamarrives at six in the morning.
I’ve been awake for an hour already, watching the light change, and watching Mina sleep against my chest. She looks so small like this. So fragile. I think about all the years she spent alone, raising our son, working herself to the bone, and my chest aches.
She wakes when the nurse knocks, jerking upright with a gasp. It takes her a moment to orient herself. The hospital room, the bed, me beside her. I see the moment she realizes where she slept.
“I…” She pulls back, her cheeks flushing. “How did I get here?”
“I carried you.” I slide my hands around her waist before she can flee. “It’s all right.”
“You shouldn’t have—”
“You needed sleep.”
The nurse clears her throat from the doorway. “Mr. Montoni? It’s time for you and Leon to begin the preoperative prep.”
Mina’s hand tightens on my wrist.
“Go check on Leon,” I tell her quietly. “Make sure he’s not scared.”
She nods, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes are locked on my face, searching for something.
“You’re really doing this,” she whispers. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes.”
“For him.”
“For both of you.”