My stomach tightened.
“What exactly did you promise?”
She hugged her rabbit and looked impossibly pleased with herself, like every stubborn four-year-old who believed she was protecting something magical.
I asked again that evening.
She refused to answer.
The next morning, I tried turning it into a game.
Still nothing.
“It’s our secret,” she whispered.
For the next two days, the atmosphere on the ward felt painfully tense.
I could not stop wondering what kind of promise a grown nurse would secretly make to my sick child.
I hardly slept.
Every possibility my exhausted mind invented seemed worse than the last.
Whenever Josh entered the room, he remained polite.
“Good morning, Adeline.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
He behaved as he always had, except he had become noticeably quiet.
Whenever our eyes met, he looked away after only a second.
Was he embarrassed?
Was he hiding something?
Or had fear taken control of my judgment?
I hated myself for questioning someone who had shown my daughter so much kindness.
Still, protecting Adeline had to come before gratitude and trust.
By the morning of the third day, my nerves were completely frayed.
I went downstairs before sunrise to buy the strongest iced coffee the hospital cafe sold.
When the elevator doors opened onto the pediatric oncology floor, the hallway was silent.
No cartoons played in the family lounge.
No children laughed.
No nurses chatted behind the station.
Instead, several nurses stood near Adeline’s room, wiping tears from their faces.
My heart stopped.
I had been gone for less than ten minutes, but I was suddenly certain that something terrible had happened.
“No,” I whispered.
The coffee trembled in my hand as I rushed toward them.
No one stopped me.
No one spoke.
The first thought that struck me was that I was too late.
Not my little girl.
Not Adeline.
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