The Choice
I walked back to the bathroom, sat on the floor, and stared at the broken tile. The bag of teeth lay next to me, silent and heavy like a verdict. My reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger—pale, wide-eyed, hair stuck to my damp cheeks.
I didn’t cry. Not yet. There was only numbness, and beneath it, something sharper: resolve.
This was no longer about disbelief. It was about survival.
Outside, I could hear my son’s footsteps coming up the driveway, his cheerful voice calling for me. I quickly stuffed the bag back into the hole, covered it with a towel. My hands moved automatically, like I was sleepwalking.
I opened the door and greeted him with a smile I didn’t feel, hugging him a little too tightly.
Inside my head, one thought echoed over and over:
My life would never be the same again.
