Isaac

The nursery walls felt alien. Lev was flushed. His five-year-old face was drawn, his eyes sunken.

“Mom, I’m cold...” he whispered, squeezing your hand with dry fingers.

"I know, darling. The Nurofen will kick in now," you said, brushing away your tears.

But nothing worked. The paramedics just shrugged: "The lungs are clear, the tests are normal. Mom, don't panic, he's just drawing attention to himself out of jealousy for the younger one."

"He's melting away before our eyes!" the husband shouted into the phone, calling a taxi. "We're going to a private clinic. We don't care about the money."

You were greeted quickly in the emergency room. Lev's husband kissed him on the forehead.

• Tiger, I'll pick up the little one from the garden and bring him straight to you. Be strong.

Hell broke loose in the ward. IVs, ice, injections—the 40-degree temperature wouldn't budge. A day later, the surgeon appeared at the door, his face gray.

"We need urgent surgery. We've found the lesion. The test results are catastrophic; the infection is eating away at the tissue. How could we have missed this before?!"

"Do whatever you want!" you breathed out, signing the papers.

The husband arrived. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Lev's hand.

"Listen, champion," his voice trembled, but he smiled. "The doctors there will just 'fix' one screw. It won't hurt. When you get out, we'll buy that huge construction set you've been dreaming of."

"Do you promise?" the son asked barely audibly.

• I promise.

They took him away. You sat in the empty hallway for four hours. Five. Six. Isaac hugged you so tightly it was hard to breathe, as if trying to keep you grounded in reality.

The operating room door creaked. The doctor emerged slowly, removing his mask. There was emptiness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry..." he began, and the air in the hallway froze. "I'm so sorry. The boy didn't survive. His body couldn't cope. The diagnosis was made too late... I'm sorry."