Bethany sat near the window, letting the small patch of sunlight warm her. Eyes closed, her thoughts drifted to the day their first son arrived. She had gripped Rod’s hands as one contraction after another left her gasping. “Just breathe, sweetheart,” he’d soothed. “Did you pick your focal point? It’s okay, squeeze as hard as you want.” Always her rock.
The beeping machines brought her back to the present. Shadows lengthened and the hospital room felt colder. Tears fell as she gripped Rod’s motionless hand, tubes and machines keeping him alive. She stroked his graying hair. “Please, sweetheart, just breathe.”
My theme this year is 100 word stories (so, no, don’t count this line.)