It had been three weeks.
Three silent, dragging weeks since Benjamin was shot. Three weeks since I found my mother nearly dead. And yet, here I was, still waiting... still waking up every morning hoping for a miracle that never came.
Benjamin hadn't opened his eyes. Not even once. He was breathing on his own, and the doctors kept saying that was a good sign. But it didn't feel like a good sign. It felt like slow torture. I missed him so much.
But I’m thankful, my mother woke up this morning.
I carried a tray of food through the hospital corridor, my hands tight around the edges. I hadn't slept more than a few hours each night. I moved like a robot between Benjamin's room and my mother’s room every single day. I barely even recognized myself anymore when I passed a mirror. My eyes looke
