Part 1: Saturdays
Every day after school, my seven-year-old son, Noah, went straight to the hospital to see his mother, Emma, who had been in a coma for two months. He refused to miss a single day.
One Saturday, I insisted he come home and sleep in his own bed.
But Noah looked at me and whispered:
“Dad, I can’t leave Mom on Saturdays.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s when she talks to me.”
I assumed grief was making him imagine things.
Until I stayed beside him and witnessed something I couldn’t explain.
My name is Jeremy. Two months earlier, I’d been away on a business trip when my mother phoned.
“Jeremy, come home. It’s Emma.”
My stomach clenched.
“What happened?”
“She’s in the hospital. She’s in a coma. Noah won’t leave her.”
I walked out of my meeting and raced home.
When I got there, Emma lay unconscious in a hospital bed. Noah sat beside her, holding her hand.
“Daddy, when will Mommy wake up?”
I knelt next to him.
“I don’t know, buddy. But the doctors are taking good care of her.”
For the next two months, our lives revolved around that hospital room.
Noah went to school, but Grandma drove him to the hospital every afternoon.
He did his homework beside Emma.
He read her superhero comics.
He told her about his classmates.
Sometimes he fell asleep with his head near her hand.
He even begged to stay overnight.
Mom and I worried. He was only seven. He needed rest, friends, and time away from the hospital.
That Saturday, I sat down beside him.
“Buddy, even superheroes need to recharge. Let’s go home tonight.”
Noah shut his comic.
“What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Then I can’t go.”
“Why?”
“Mom talks to me on Saturdays.”
I stared at him.
“Noah, Mom can’t speak right now.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“Then stay and see.”
I agreed.
For nearly an hour, nothing happened.
Noah told Emma about school, his spelling test, and Grandma burning pancakes.
From the corner, Mom objected.
“They weren’t burned.”
Noah grinned.
“They were black, Grandma.”
Eventually, Mom went home.
I stayed beside Noah.
Around seven, I stood up to fetch coffee.
He looked up at once.
“You promised you’d stay.”
“I’m only getting coffee.”
“There’s coffee down the hall. Why do you need to leave?”
I stopped.
Then I sat back down.
“You’re right. I’ll stay.”
Twenty minutes later, Noah scooted closer to Emma.
“Okay, Mom. Dad’s here.”
He slid his hand beneath hers.
“Mom, is Dad here with us?”
We waited.
Then Emma’s index finger moved.
Once.
