When Arnold stopped outside a room, I noticed the name on the door.
Emily Harding.
My daughter’s name.
I froze.
“Why is my daughter’s name on this door?”
Arnold said nothing.
I pushed the door open.
And there he was.
Ben.
Sitting beside our eight-year-old daughter.
He was holding her hand.
She was asleep beneath a hospital blanket.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“Ben?”
He turned.
His face went pale.
“Sarah?”
