I won't wait for you anymore

I packed a single duffel bag in the dark. I didn't wait for the morning sun. I didn't wait for my husband to return.

By eleven o'clock, the sterile scent of the pediatric oncology ward surrounded us. The night shift nurses rushed Anna through her early admission, securing her IV line and adjusting the monitors.

Anna sat up in the narrow hospital bed. She clutched a cheap, faded stuffed dog to her chest. Anson had won it at a gas station claw machine two years ago. It was the only gift he ever gave her without my prompting.

"Mommy?"

I smoothed the white blanket over her legs. "I'm right here, sweetie."

"Why does Daddy always go to Richard?" Her small voice barely carried over the steady beep of the heart monitor. She traced the floppy ear of the toy dog. "Does he not like me?"

A sharp knot formed in my throat. I swallowed hard, refusing to let the tears fall in front of her.

"What makes you say that, Anna?"

"He didn't eat my birthday cake," she whispered. "He left my party. And he holds Richard's hand. He doesn't hold mine."

I leaned over the metal bed rail. I pressed my lips against her warm, bare forehead.

"Don't care about what Daddy thinks," I told her, forcing a smile onto my face. "Our Anna will defeat the virus monster first, hmm?"

She offered a weak nod. "Will you hold my hand during the monster fight?"

"I will never let it go."

Her eyelids drooped. The heavy pre-op medications finally took effect. Within minutes, the steady rhythm of her breathing filled the quiet room.

I backed away from the bed and pulled the heavy wooden door shut.

The moment the latch clicked into place, my composure shattered. I pressed my spine against the cold hallway wall and slid down to the linoleum floor. I buried my face in my knees. Silent sobs racked my chest. The unfairness of it all crushed the air from my lungs.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

"It hurts!" a young boy whined.

"I know, buddy, I've got you," a familiar baritone answered.

I snapped my head up. I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my sleeve and scrambled to my feet.

Anson marched down the hall. He carried Richard in his arms. The seven-year-old boy rested his head on my husband's broad shoulder. Dora trailed closely behind them, clutching a small plastic bag from the first-floor pharmacy.

In seven years, I could count on one hand the number of times Anson had carried Anna like that.

He stopped short when he saw me standing outside Room 412. His brow furrowed. He didn't look guilty. He looked utterly annoyed.

"What are you doing here?" Anson demanded.

"I brought my daughter to the hospital."

"The prep wasn't scheduled until tomorrow morning." Anson shifted Richard's weight higher on his chest. "Why did you admit Anna today?"

"Her fever spiked. I wanted her settled under medical supervision."

Anson scoffed. "Helen, are you using the child's body to throw a tantrum out of jealousy over Dora?"

A sudden chill swept through my veins. The sheer audacity of his words paralyzed me.

"Jealousy?" I repeated.

"You checked her in early just to make me look like the bad guy," Anson accused. "You knew I took Richard to the clinic. You wanted the nurses to see you alone to play the victim."

"Anna is having a bone marrow transplant in eight hours." I kept my voice dangerously low. "She is fighting for her life."

"And I'm the donor!" he shot back. "I told you I'd be here at six-thirty. But you had to create a scene."

Dora stepped forward. She placed a manicured hand on Anson's forearm. "I told you she would overreact, Anson. She just wants attention."

I ignored the other woman entirely. I kept my eyes locked on my husband.

"Put him down."

"Excuse me?" Anson glared.

"Put Richard down. Your daughter is sleeping right behind this door. If she wakes up and sees you holding another woman's son, it will break her heart."

Richard tightened his grip around Anson's neck. "Uncle Anson, my tummy still hurts."

"I'm right here, pal," Anson murmured to the boy. He turned his glare back to me. "He has a severe stomach bug, Helen. He's dehydrated. The ER doctor said he needs comfort."

"My daughter has cancer."

"Stop using that as a weapon!" Anson snapped.

The door handle behind me rattled.

I spun around. The heavy door cracked open. Anna stood in the gap, dragging her metal IV pole with one hand. She still clutched the stuffed dog in the other.

She stared directly at the man holding the healthy boy.

"Daddy?" she asked.

Anson froze. His jaw tightened. He didn't lower Richard to the floor.

"Anna," Anson started, his tone suddenly lacking its earlier fire. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"I heard yelling." She pointed a frail finger toward the boy. "Are you here to see me?"

A heavy silence blanketed the hallway. Anson opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. He glanced at me, then back to the fragile girl leaning against the doorframe.

Before he could form a single word, Dora moved.

"Anson," Dora interrupted urgently. She tugged on his sleeve. "Richard is not doing well. He's burning up again. He really needs you."

Anson looked down at the woman beside him. Then he looked at the boy in his arms.

He didn't look at Anna.

"I have to get him home," Anson said. He directed the statement to the floor tiles. "I need to get him settled into bed."

"Anson, don't you dare," I warned.

He took a step backward. "I'll be back in the morning for the extraction. Just... let her rest."

He turned around. Dora hurried after him. They walked down the long corridor, their shadows merging into one. Anson's broad shoulders shielded Richard from the harsh fluorescent lights above.

I stood completely still. The anger drained out of me, leaving only a hollow void.

I turned to face my daughter. I expected a meltdown. I braced myself to catch her if she collapsed.

Anna stood perfectly straight. Her tired eyes tracked her father until he disappeared around the corner. She didn't cry. Her lip didn't even tremble.

She looked up at me.

"Mommy," she said, her voice steady and quiet.

"I'm here, baby."

"Let's go back to the room."

She turned the IV pole around and wheeled it back toward her bed.

I followed her inside. I closed the door, sealing us off from the rest of the world. I watched her climb onto the mattress and pull the thin white sheet over her chest.

She placed the stuffed dog on the bedside table, pushing it far out of her reach.

I sat in the plastic chair beside her. I didn't speak. I just held her small, bruised hand until the sun began to rise.

At six o'clock, the door swung open.

Dr. Evans walked in, holding a sterile clipboard. Two nurses flanked him, pushing a mobile surgical cart.

"Good morning, Helen," the doctor said. His eyes darted around the empty room. "Is Anson here?"