I pushed through the small crowd and threw open the heavy wooden door.
“Adeline!” I cried.
My coffee hit the floor.
To my surprise, the room looked nothing like the sterile space I had left minutes earlier.
Battery-powered fairy lights twinkled across the walls.
Paper flowers hung from the ceiling.
Colorful streamers framed the windows, and a large cardboard castle stood in one corner.
Silk flower petals created a path to Adeline’s bed, which had been transformed into a princess’s throne with pastel blankets and handmade decorations.
Several nurses wore sparkling tiaras.
A pediatric therapist carried a toy wand.
Even Adeline’s IV pole had been wrapped in pink ribbon.
My daughter sat in the middle of it all, wearing a glittering crown.
She was not crying.
She was not in pain.
She was smiling more brightly than I had seen in months.
I stood frozen in the doorway.
Then I noticed Josh near her bed, his hands clasped nervously in front of him.
The nurses followed me inside.
Only then did I understand.
They had not been crying because we had lost Adeline.
They were crying because they knew what was about to happen.
“What’s going on?” I asked, pressing one hand against my chest.
Josh looked directly at me for the first time in days.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know keeping the secret made things difficult.”
“You scared me to death.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
I looked from him to the decorations.
“I don’t understand.”
“I owe you an explanation.”
The room became still.
“A few days ago,” Josh began, “Adeline told me about a cartoon. A prince proposed to a princess, and there were flowers and applause.”
“There were lots of flowers,” Adeline reminded him.
Josh smiled.
“She told me she wanted a moment like that someday.
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