And when that day came, I wouldn’t be the mother begging for her son’s love.
I would be the woman who survived his betrayal.

Morning crept slowly into the hospital room, slicing through the blinds in pale stripes. Machines hummed softly. Robert slept beside me, his chest rising and falling beneath a blanket the color of ash. I watched him, the man who had built our family on shaky foundations, the man who had confessed his sins in a ditch.

I should have hated him. Part of me did. But hatred was a luxury I couldn’t afford — not when survival required clarity.

When a nurse came in to check his IV, I asked the question that had burned in my chest all night. “Can we have the police outside our room?”

She hesitated. “You’re not under investigation, ma’am.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But someone might try to finish what they started.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she nodded.

Two hours later, an officer stood at the door. His badge gleamed in the morning light. “I’m Officer Reynolds,” he said. “You mentioned foul play in your accident?”