Where the Heart Rests

Aurora had always known she wouldn’t be the kind of mother who chased her children through fields or spun them in circles until they were dizzy with laughter. She had accepted that long before the twins were even born. But she had hoped, prayed, that she’d have more time before the weight of her illness stole the simplest joys from her. Before it left her stranded in bed, her body frail, her energy fleeting. The house had been adjusted to make things easier for her. The bedroom was set up like a sanctuary, with soft blankets and warm lighting, a space where she could still be present for Ethan and the kids. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough. She saw it in their eyes, in the way Ethan lingered in the doorway some mornings, as if willing time to slow. In the way the twins climbed onto the bed and curled into her side, asking why she was always so tired. She gave them gentle smiles, soft reassurances. But they were smart, too smart. “Mommy gets very tired sometimes,” her daughter told the nurse at her last appointment, her tiny voice laced with something that sounded too much like understanding. And Aurora had to swallow the lump in her throat, had to blink away the tears before Ethan saw them, because he was already carrying too much. Because she couldn’t bear to see the worry in his eyes deepen.

Ethan was relentless. Every morning, he sat beside her with his laptop, researching treatments, new doctors, clinical trials that might offer even the faintest glimmer of hope. She told him not to. Told him she didn’t want him exhausting himself chasing something that didn’t exist. But he never listened. “You think I’m just gonna sit here and watch you waste away?” he snapped one evening, his voice thick with frustration, with desperation. His fingers dug into his scalp as he exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with the force of his emotions. “I spent years hunting down people who didn’t want to be found, cracking cases no one else could touch. And you think I won’t do the same for you?” She had no response to that. Because there was nothing to say, no way to argue against a love so fierce, so determined. So she let him fight for her, even when she didn’t have the strength to fight for herself. And when the exhaustion swallowed her whole, when sleep pulled her under for hours at a time, he was always there when she woke. Always watching. Always waiting.

The children didn’t fully understand, but they felt the shift. They knew something was wrong. The days where Aurora had enough energy to play board games with them were becoming rarer, and the ones where she could barely lift her head were more frequent. Ethan tried to make up for it, tried to keep things normal, tried to be both parents at once. But some nights, she heard him through the walls, his quiet sobs muffled by the palm pressed over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he stood outside the door. And she hated it. Hated that she was putting him through this. Hated that their children had to grow up with a mother who was more ghost than woman. Hated that no matter how hard Ethan fought, no matter how many sleepless nights he spent searching for an answer, he was losing her.

Then came the night everything changed. It had started with a headache, a sharp pain behind her eyes that made it hard to focus. She’d ignored it, brushing it off as nothing, as she had so many times before. But then the weakness came. The dizziness. The feeling of something pulling her under, stealing her breath, her strength. She barely registered Ethan’s arms catching her before the world tilted violently, her body crumpling like paper. “Aurora?” His voice was distant, muffled. Panicked. She tried to answer, tried to reach for him, but her limbs wouldn’t move. And then...nothing.

Ethan’s heart nearly stopped alongside hers. One moment, she was there, her body slumping against him, and the next, she was gone. No breath. No pulse. Nothing. The machines screamed, alarms blaring as nurses swarmed in, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except hold onto her like sheer willpower alone would be enough to keep her here. “No. No, no, no,” he growled, his voice a broken, desperate thing as he lowered her onto the hospital bed. His hands pressed against her chest, fingers locking. “You are not doing this to me, Aurora. You are not f*****g leaving me.” He started compressions, his body running on pure instinct. “Breathe, baby. Breathe for me.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat. Again. And again. His world narrowed to the rhythmic push of his hands, the silence of her body, the sharp beeping of machines tracking every failing second. And then, her body lurched. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as air forced its way back into her lungs.

Relief slammed into him like a tidal wave. He gathered her into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers, his breath ragged. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” But then, the beeping changed again. Erratic. Sharp. Then, a single, endless tone. Flatline. His body locked up. The room blurred. “No. No, no, no!” Hands yanked him away, nurses shouting orders, a crash cart slamming into the bedside. And he was powerless. Helpless. Forced to watch as they fought to bring her back. A syringe plunged into her chest. A defibrillator pressed to her skin. “Clear!” Her body jerked. Once. Twice. Again. And again. They tried four times. Then silence. Agonizing, crushing silence. Until...beep.

It was faint. Weak. But it was there. Ethan collapsed into the chair beside the bed, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them. The nurses were still working, still stabilizing her, but he didn’t hear them. Couldn’t. All he could do was stare at her, at the slow rise and fall of her chest, at the color returning to her cheeks. “She’s stable,” a nurse finally said, squeezing his shoulder. “She’s gonna be okay.” He barely processed the words.

For days she just lay there. Eyes closed. Body still besides the steady rise and fall of her chest. But then, her fingers twitched. And when her lashes fluttered open, when her drowsy, unfocused eyes met his, something inside him shattered.

“You scared the s**t out of me,” he choked out, gripping her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Her lips curved slightly, weak, but there. And that was enough.

More days passed, but something was different. The doctors ran test after test, confused but hopeful. And then, finally, they gave him an answer. The illness, the condition that had stolen so much from her, was gone. Vanished. As if she had hit reset, as if her body had rewritten itself in those terrifying moments of stillness.

Ethan didn’t care how or why. He didn’t question the miracle. He just held her. And for the first time in years, he let himself believe in a future where she wasn’t slipping away. Where she was here. Where she was his.

The four of them lay on the bed in comfortable silence for a few minutes before her daughter decided to break it. "Mommy, are you still very tired?" A small smile then, "No, sweetheart. Not anymore."