A twitch. The slightest movement in the fingers I was holding.
I jerked upright. “Emma? Emma, can you hear me?”
“NURSE! I NEED A NURSE IN HERE!” I screamed.
The next hours were chaos. Doctors rushing in. Tests being run. Questions being asked. Emma drifting in and out of consciousness.
But she was waking up. After six months, my baby girl was waking up.
I called Thomas at 4 AM. His voice was groggy but as soon as I said “She’s awake,” I heard him drop the phone.
He burst through the hospital room door at 4
AM. Marie was right behind him. Emma’s eyes were open but confused, unfocused.
“Emma,” I said gently, holding her hand. “There’s someone here who’s been waiting a long time to see you.”
Thomas approached the bed slowly. This massive, terrifying-looking man with tears streaming into his beard.
Emma’s brow furrowed. She studied his face. Then her eyes widened.
“The accident,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, damaged from months of disuse. “You were there. You held my hand. You said…”
“I said you weren’t going to die alone,” Thomas finished. “And you didn’t. You made it, Emma. You’re okay.”
Emma started crying. “You stayed with me. I remember your voice. You kept talking so I wouldn’t fall asleep. You told me about your daughter. About Emily.”
Thomas fell apart completely. Sank into the chair beside her bed, sobbing like I’d never seen a grown man sob.
“I couldn’t leave you,” he choked out. “I promised. I promised I’d stay.”
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