“Mom… Dad is waiting for you to die. Please don’t open your eyes.”
That was the first thing "s"I heard after twelve days lost in a thick, suffocating darkness—like I’d been buried alive without a coffin.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even take a deep breath without pain splitting my skull in two.
But I knew that voice instantly.
“Ethan…”
My nine-year-old son was beside my hospital bed, crying softly, his small hand wrapped around mine the way he used to do when fireworks scared him.
“Mom… if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please.”
I tried.
God knows I tried.
But my body wouldn’t listen.
A nurse walked in, talking about IV fluids, blood pressure, and the “miracle” that I was still alive. She mentioned my SUV had gone off the road near a mountain pass outside the city.
