Chapter 6 - Shadows of the Past
Two days later, Owen woke up in a bright, sunlit private room on the hospital’s recovery floor. His leg was encased in a clean blue fiberglass cast, and the IV had been removed.
When he opened his eyes, he didn't cower. He blinked twice, looked around the room—which was now filled with age-appropriate toys, books, and a colorful quilt my mother had knitted years ago—and then looked at me sitting in the armchair.
“Mom?” he whispered hesitantly.
The word hit me like a physical wave of electricity. I couldn't speak; my throat locked up. I simply stood, walked over to the bed, and gently took his hand.
“I’m here, baby,” I choked out, kneeling beside the mattress so we were eye to eye. “I’m right here.”
“Are we still at the hospital?” he asked, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting someone to walk in and yell at him for resting.
“We are,” I said softly. “But we’re leaving soon. We’re going home.”
“Which home?” he asked, his lower lip trembling slightly. “The one with the green door? Or the one with the squeaky floor?”
“A new home, Owen,” I said, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead. “A home with a backyard. A big yard with grass, where you can play soccer, and where nobody will ever, ever lock you in a room or tell you that you have to pay for being hurt.”
A small, tentative tear slipped down his cheek. He reached out and touched my face with his small fingers, tracing the contour of my cheekbone just like he used to do when he was a toddler.
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“I missed you,” he whispered. “I had a picture of you in my head, but I thought maybe I made it up.”
“You didn't make it up,” I whispered back, pressing my forehead against his hand. “I was real. And I never stopped looking for you. Not for a single day.”
