her as I get dressed and haphazardly run a comb through my hair.
I walk to her side of the bed, grab the intercom remote I installed a couple of months ago, and put it by her hand. When I’m not in the room with her, I want her to have a way of calling me if she needs anything when she wakes up. Leaning over, I put my mouth close to her ear. I always like to let her know I’m up before I leave the room.
“Molly,” I whisper and kiss her cheek. “Hey, baby,” I say a bit louder when she doesn’t respond.
Remembering the off feeling I had when I first woke up, my heart begins to pound in my chest. I press two fingers against the pulse in her neck. She was breathing when I was in bed, but I check anyway.
Feeling her pulse doesn’t alleviate my worry.
“Molly,” I call her name again and gently shake her shoulder.
Nothing. There’s not one inkling of a response from her.
I press against her shoulder and roll her to her back. Her eyes don’t flicker at all, and her breathing stays the same. Her head lulls to the side, and her lips part from the movement.
My chest tightens, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest.
“Molly,” I plead, my voice hoarse from the tears forming in my eyes. “Please, baby.”
When she still doesn’t respond, my legs give out, and I fall to my knees beside the bed. A tear slides down my cheek and lands on her arm. Another falls quickly after.
My gaze lands on her stomach, and I pinpoint on the fact that she’s still breathing. She’s not gone—not all of the way—or at least not yet.
Dr. Becker said the likelihood of Molly falling into a coma was high. Most patients with GSS die either from pneumonia or fall into a coma the last few months before their body ultimately gives out.
I clench my jaw and barely suppress the overwhelming urge to scream at the top of my lungs that I’m not ready yet.
I need more time with her. It’s too goddamn soon.
I’m not prepared to say goodbye.
There are too many things I still want to say to her.
Hearing one of the bedroom doors in the hall opening, I quickly get to my feet and wipe away the evidence of tears from my cheeks. I leave my wife on the bed and walk out to meet whoever’s awake before they can come into the room. There’s no way I want Gray or Gemma to walk in and see their mother like this. She looks like she’s sleeping, but it wouldn’t take long to figure out something is wrong.
I meet Gray in the hall just as he makes it to our bedroom door. Grabbing his shoulder, I push him away from the door and bend so we’re eye to eye. I have to clear my throat several times to get words past the lump wedged there.
“I need you to do me an important favor, Gray,” I tell him. “I need you to go to Gemma’s room and wake her up. But I need you both to stay in her room for a little while.”
Hearing the seriousness in my tone, his senses go on high alert. “What’s wrong?” His voice cracks. “Is Mom…?” He trails off, and his throat bobs, unable to form the words.
“No.” I take a deep breath. “But I need to call the ambulance.”
Tears form in his eyes and immediately slide down his cheeks. I yank him forward into my arms. My own eyes fill again, and there’s not a shot in hell I can stop them from falling.
I hold my son against my chest for a moment longer before I pull back, shouldering my tears away.
“Can you be brave and keep Gemma in her room for me? I know this is hard, but I don’t want her to know yet. Can you do that for me? Just for a little bit.”
He sniffs, his bottom lip still trembling, but he nods. “Yeah. I’ll keep Gemma in her room.”
I pull him toward me and kiss his forehead. He slides the heels of his hands against his cheeks before going to Gemma’s room. He looks so goddamn sad when he looks back at me before slipping into the room.
With my sternum feeling like it’s cracked open and my heart bleeding out of my chest, I rush back into my and Molly’s room. Quickly grabbing my phone from