My boy. Seven years old, though life had never allowed him to feel like one. He looked smaller than he should have, as if the world had been draining him long before death ever arrived. His lips were dry, his skin pale, and the marks from needles traced his thin arms. There was nothing peaceful about the way he went—only fear that hadn’t left his face.
And all of it, because his father chose someone else’s child over him.
I just stood there. Too drained to scream. Too hollow to cry. I had promised I would protect him.
And I failed.
The doctor beside me spoke softly. “I’m sorry… the infection progressed too fast. Without the specialist, there was nothing we could do.”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I gently fixed a strand of hair off Gabriel’s face. He always hated it covering his eyes.
Then I said quietly, “It’s okay. You can proceed. Let him go… somewhere he won’t feel pain anymore.”
After a pause, they carefully placed him inside the chamber. Maybe they felt sorry for me. Maybe they didn’t feel anything at all.
At that point, I didn’t feel much either.
He was finally free. No more waiting. No more calling for a father who never came. No more asking questions that cut deeper every time.