My world shattered with the force of six words.
“Your daughter is in intensive care.”
The sterile hospital air stung my lungs as the receptionist’s voice echoed in my head. Just thirty minutes earlier, I’d been wheeling my suitcase through my front door, still carrying the scent of European cafés and Mediterranean breezes, expecting to surprise Olivia with Parisian chocolates and Italian leather.
Instead, I found an unopened envelope from Northwestern Memorial Hospital leaning against my doorframe, collecting dust for days.
How long has she been here?
I gripped the counter, knuckles white, jet lag forgotten, as adrenaline surged through my veins.
“Mrs. Thompson was admitted six days ago following a severe auto accident.” The receptionist’s professional detachment only heightened my growing panic.
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