I thought she was just offended by my words and was reacting emotionally, but the truth turned out to be much more difficult. Now I can't forgive myself for what I said to her that day, and every time I remember what I saw, the tears flow by themselves.

When I reached the room, I stopped in the doorway. I couldn't move. She looked smaller than I remembered, buried in the white sheets. Her arms were connected by tubes. The machine made even sounds, indifferent to the weight pressing down on my chest.

I held her hand.

It was thinner, colder, but undoubtedly hers.

Forgive me, I whispered as tears soaked into the blanket. I was wrong. Please forgive me.

Her eyes slowly opened.

A faint smile appeared on her lips.

"A mother can never hate her child," she whispered. "Now that you are a mother, you will understand."

I stayed with her.

I offered her little pieces of ice. I combed her hair. I told her about my daughter—how she smiled in her sleep, how her little fingers dug into mine. Mom listened quietly, as if collecting every word and keeping it deep inside herself.

Four days later he was gone.