He didn’t die because of chance. He died because the people closest to him decided he shouldn’t exist. Later that night, a hospital social worker sat with Noah and me.
She told him he was brave for speaking up. She praised his honesty, his courage. He didn’t respond to any of it.
He only asked if his baby brother was cold. That question broke what was left of me. An internal review showed the nurse had stepped away for less than two minutes.
That was all it took. The hospital apologized. It changed nothing.
Evan was still gone. Within days, the story was everywhere. News vans lined the street.
Headlines spread faster than facts. Comment sections filled with strangers debating religion, morality, and evil as if those were abstract ideas instead of the reasons my child was dead. Daniel moved out the following week.
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