The monitors were still beeping when my boss told me to “separate work from your private life,” and the words seemed to dissolve into the sterile air of the hospital room before fully reaching my ears. They floated there for a moment, weightless and absurd, mixing with the soft mechanical rhythm that tracked my son’s fragile heartbeat. He lay so small in that bed, surrounded by wires and plastic tubing, his skin pale against white sheets, his breathing shallow and uneven.

I remember noticing details that felt strangely important at the time: the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the antiseptic smell that clung to everything, the way the window reflected our silhouettes like strangers standing in someone else’s tragedy. I held my phone loosely in one hand, my son’s fingers in the other, and listened as my boss spoke about deadlines, responsibilities, and professionalism. He didn’t sound cruel. He sounded efficient. Detached. As if he were discussing a late report instead of a child fighting to stabilize. I didn’t interrupt him. I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue.