My husband was in the hospital, so I visited him with our 5-year-old daughter. As he slept, my daughter whispered to me, “Mom… do you know what’s really on dad’s back?” Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?” Without a word, she lifted the sheet off his back. And in that instant, I couldn’t breathe. Every drop of blood drained from my face.

When my husband, Mark, was hospitalized for what doctors initially suspected was acute appendicitis, I didn’t think much of it. He had always been healthy, the kind of man who shrugged off pain and pushed through long hours at the metal fabrication plant. Our five-year-old daughter, Chloe, and I visited him the morning after he was admitted. He was asleep when we arrived, his face pale, his breathing uneven.

Chloe clung to my hand as we stepped into the quiet room. The IV dripped steadily beside him, the monitor beeping at long intervals. I tried smiling at her, trying to keep things calm, but she wasn’t looking at his face—she was staring at his back beneath the thin hospital blanket.

As I sat down beside his bed, Chloe tugged at my sleeve.
“Mom…” she whispered. “Do you know what’s really on Dad’s back?”

Her voice was so small, so serious, that for a moment I forgot how young she was. A chill ran through me.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

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