Hospitals have a strange way of swallowing time. Days melt into one another under the cold glow of fluorescent lights, the soft hum of machines marking every passing second. The walls are white, almost too bright, and the air carries the sharp scent of disinfectant, tinged with endings. Silence hangs in corners, broken only by the soft beeps of monitors reminding everyone of life’s fragility. For one mother, this had become her world. Her seven-year-old son, Liam, had been battling leukemia for two long, exhausting years. Two years filled with

I let my sister-in-law, Tessa, stay with us when I was eight months pregnant. She promised it would be temporary. “Just a week, maybe two,” she had said through her sobs, “until I get back on my feet.” Two months later, while we were out with our newborn, she destroyed our kitchen and walked away smirking. She thought she’d gotten away with it. She was very wrong. I wish I could say I understood Tessa, that there was some hidden pain behind what she did. Maybe growing up in her