Lost Love after Daughter's Death

I jerked awake to the sound of Liv's monitor beeping frantically. Her breathing had become shallow, her small chest heaving with the effort to draw air. I didn't need the flashing red numbers on the screen to tell me her oxygen levels were dropping dangerously low.

"Baby, stay with me," I whispered, already reaching for my phone with one hand while pressing the nurse call button with the other. The clock read 3:17 AM—we'd made it through another night, but just barely.

Within minutes, our living room transformed into a flurry of urgent activity as the home health nurse called an ambulance. I held Liv's frail hand the entire ride to Seattle Children's Hospital, whispering promises I wasn't sure I could keep anymore.

"Is Daddy coming?" she asked through the oxygen mask, her voice so faint I had to lean close to hear it.

"I'll call him right now," I promised, stroking her paper-thin skin.

The call went straight to voicemail—again. I left message number six since yesterday, no longer bothering to hide the panic in my voice.

"Tobias, it's critical. We're at the hospital. Liv's condition has deteriorated significantly. The doctors are saying..." My voice broke. "They're saying without the surgery, we have days, maybe less. Please call me back. Your daughter needs you."

Dr. Martinez's face told me everything before she even spoke. We stood in the hallway outside Liv's room, the fluorescent lights casting shadows that deepened the lines of concern on her face.

"Mrs. Dean, Liv's heart is failing. The medication can only do so much at this point. Without the surgery..." She hesitated, her professional demeanor slipping for just a moment. "I'm so sorry. We should discuss comfort measures."

Comfort measures. The clinical term for letting my daughter die as painlessly as possible.

"There has to be something else we can do," I pleaded, my nails digging into my palms. "Payment plans, medical trials, anything."

"The surgery needs to happen immediately, and it requires specialists flying in from Boston. The hospital needs at least partial payment upfront." She placed a gentle hand on my arm. "I've already reached out to every program I know."

I nodded numbly, thanking her before returning to Liv's bedside. As I settled into the uncomfortable hospital chair, my phone buzzed with a notification. Not Tobias—but Celine's Instagram account that I'd hate-followed for months.

The image showed a sun-drenched private yacht deck. Celine lounged in a white bikini, champagne flute in hand, while Tobias—my husband, Liv's father—stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist, his lips pressed against her neck. The caption read: "Birthday celebrations continue! Day 2 in paradise with my love. #BahamasGetaway #BirthdayGirl #VintageCartier"

The timestamp showed it had been posted just twenty minutes ago.

With trembling fingers, I called his number again. Voicemail. Again.

"Tobias, I know you have your phone off. I've seen Celine's posts." I struggled to keep my voice steady. "While you're drinking champagne, your daughter is dying. The doctors say she has days left. Days, Tobias. She keeps asking for you."

I ended the call and looked at Liv, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, her chest rising and falling with painful irregularity. The smartwatch on her wrist—his Christmas gift—blinked with her dangerously elevated heart rate.

Over the next forty-eight hours, I left sixteen more messages. Each one more desperate than the last. Each one met with silence.

"Daddy promised he'd call today," Liv whispered on the second evening, her voice barely audible over the beeping machines. "He promised."

"I know, sweetheart." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, trying to hide the tears that threatened to spill over. "Maybe tomorrow."

As night fell over Seattle, my phone buzzed again. For one wild moment, hope surged through me—but it was just another Instagram notification. Celine, resplendent in a flowing white dress, the controversial Cartier necklace glittering at her throat, stood on a moonlit beach. Tobias was raising a glass in a toast, his smile wider than any I'd seen directed at me in years.

The caption read: "Last night in paradise with the love of my life. Thank you for making this birthday unforgettable. #BlessedAndGrateful"

I turned off my phone and curled up beside Liv in her hospital bed, listening to her labored breathing in the darkness, wondering how much time we had left.