I finally reached for my phone.
From the background, Brendon's voice broke through.
"Put that away, Andrew! You're fine! Stop making a scene. Don't worry your mom. Just sit down for a bit."
Andrew's lips pressed together, his eyes searching the lens. The video cut off.
I sat there frozen, replaying his words. Guilt washed over me. How many times had I missed a message in the rush of single parenting and work?
My boy had reached out to me, scared, and I hadn't been there in time.
My hands shook as I dialed the hospital. It wasn't just an emergency. It was Brendon's lack of urgency.
Guilt washed over me.
"This is Olivia, Andrew's mother. I found something you need to hear. Please call me back as soon as possible."
As I ended the call, my voice cracked, but I kept talking, as if Andrew was still at home. "I'm here now, sweetheart. I'm listening. I promise."
And for the first time, I let myself cry, knowing I owed my son the truth, and that I'd do whatever it took to fight for him.
I barely slept. My phone lit up with texts from Brendon:
"Where are you?"
"Don't make me the bad guy."
"We need to look united. Stop digging, Olivia."
