But nothing happened.
No calls.
No message.
Total silence.
I thought that meant they had found another solution. Maybe they had found another donor. Maybe the doctors were trying new treatments. Maybe my husband was too busy at the hospital to worry about me.
It was two weeks before the guilt finally pushed me home.
I told myself I was just going to check up on them.
I just wanted to know how things were evolving.
But as soon as I crossed the threshold of the house, I had a bad feeling.
The walls of the living room were covered in drawings.
Dozens of them.
Maybe hundreds.
Clunky and irregular sketches, glued with pieces of white medical tape. Pencil strokes covered the paper like colored storms.
Stick dolls with giant heads.
A tall man.
And beside them, a woman with long hair.
Above every drawing, written with trembling letters, appeared the same word:
“Mama”.
I got a lump in my throat.
I approached, noticing that the drawings varied slightly from one another. In some, the child held the woman’s hand. In others, they were standing in front of a house. One of them showed the three characters under a huge yellow sun.
They were all labeled the same way.
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