Silently she sits, never leaving the bed, his tiny, fragile hand resting limp in her own. All she wishes for is a squeeze, a wiggle or a flinch of an eyelid. Machines and tubes keep her little boy breathing. Fat tears freely fall, crashing heavy as her heart to the floor as she stares at him.
Fixates on him.
Looking for something she wills to find but can not see.
Her husband is at her back, resting a palm on her shoulder. The weight is too much and she swipes herself away. His touch is toxic. His presence unbearable.
It was an accident. An accident.
Perhaps if her little boy wakes she could fight to forgive her husband. She wants to believe it, but somehow is certain that day will never, ever come.