Chapter 38

Esther’s POV

The moment I saw him, my knees nearly gave out. Carl lay on the bed, small and fragile beneath the sterile white sheets, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm so steady it almost seemed like a lie. I had imagined worse—imagined the worst—but seeing him now, pale but alive, his tiny hands curling around the blanket, it was as though the weight of every sleepless night, every terrified glance, every whisper of worry I’d endured slammed into me at once.

My legs carried me forward without permission, almost as if they had a mind of their own. My hand hovered over his forehead for a trembling moment before I touched him, brushing damp curls away from his skin. He was warm. Not fever-hot, not icy cold, just warm, just as a child should be after sleep or a bath.

A sob broke from me, quiet but unstoppable. My whole body shook as I bent low, pressing my forehead to the back of his hand. The hospital ward was silent except for the faint hum of the machines, the low murmur of distant voices, and my own ragged breathing.

“I thought I lost you,” I whispered, my voice splintering into the sterile quiet. “I thought—” My throat tightened, cutting off the words, and tears slid down my face, dampening the blanket covering him.

I had promised myself I would never cry in front of my children. They would never see my weakness, never sense my fear. But here, with Carl lying quietly, I couldn’t stop. I could not hold back the torrent of grief and relief and terror that had been building for years, coiled tight inside me like a spring ready to snap.

I smoothed my hand down his arm, tucking the blanket higher around him as if the gesture alone could protect him from every danger the world could conjure. “You’re going to be okay. Do you hear me? Mama’s here. I’ll find a way. I promise. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll give you a future. You’re not a monster, Carl. You’re my boy. My strong, brave boy. And I swear on my life, no one will take you from me.”

The words felt like vows etched into my bones. They were a promise, a defiance, a shield against every shadow I had endured in these last desperate months.

A throat cleared behind me. I turned sharply, wiping my face, trying to stand tall despite the tremor in my knees. The doctor, tall and thin, with streaks of silver in his hair and eyes that carried more sympathy than I wanted to bear, held a clipboard and a sheaf of papers in one hand.

“He’s stable for now,” he said carefully, each word measured as if he feared breaking me with a single slip of truth. “But his condition is delicate. His wolf’s energy is fluctuating unpredictably. We managed to calm the outbreak this time, but it won’t be the last. His recovery will be slow, and he’ll need consistent treatment.”

“Whatever it takes,” I said instantly, voice raw, my hands clutching the blanket tighter.

The doctor hesitated, eyes flicking over my tear-streaked face before he extended the papers. “These are the costs. For Carl’s care, and… for yours.”

I took them without thinking. The numbers were staggering. My body went cold as I read, the paper trembling in my hands. My medical bills from the accident alone had been catastrophic—emergency surgery, intensive care, scans. And now Carl’s treatment stacked on top, stretching into the indefinite future.

The room tilted.

I could feel the panic pressing down, a weight in my chest heavier than anything I had ever carried. I had scraped and saved, borrowed and begged, taken on every job I could stomach. I had worked myself to the bone, starved myself if it meant the children would eat. But this… this was beyond me. Beyond every ounce of strength I had left.

Tears stung my eyes again, but I blinked furiously to keep them back. I could not, would not, break here. Not here. Not in front of anyone else.

The doctor spoke again, softer now, as if he sensed my crumbling resolve. “We’ll do everything we can. But you need to understand the financial realities. Specialized care like this… it won’t come cheap. You’ll need to plan accordingly.”

I nodded stiffly, throat too tight to form words, and turned toward the door before I gave in to the sobs that threatened to tear me apart.

The corridor outside was empty, blessedly so, the hum of fluorescent lights the only witness to my collapse. I sank onto a bench, the papers crumpling in my fists as though holding them tighter could somehow change the numbers, erase the debt, rewrite reality.

My breath came fast, shallow. My body trembled, not just from exhaustion, but from the pure, unrelenting terror that I was powerless to save him. I pressed the papers to my chest, the numbers etched into the page burning into my mind. I had tried everything. I had clawed my way through poverty, shame, exhaustion, and still it was not enough.

I thought of the children. Sofia, bright and brave despite her small size, always trying to be my shadow, my little guardian. And Carl, fighting for every breath, every heartbeat, every fragment of normalcy that I had promised him.

My chest caved inward. For the first time in years, despair clawed its way up my throat. The darkness of it was suffocating, all-consuming. I had always been the protector, the one who endured every indignity, every hardship, every whisper of danger. But now, I felt like a child again, helpless, desperate, and afraid that I would fail in the one thing that truly mattered.

What if I couldn’t save him?

What if no amount of work, no amount of sacrifice, no amount of blood, sweat, or tears would be enough to keep him safe?

I buried my face in my hands, muffling my sobs as the sterile air of the hospital burned my lungs. My body ached, not just from my own injuries, not just from the crash, but from the sheer exhaustion of constant vigilance, constant fear. And through it all, one thought pounded relentlessly in my mind:

How am I going to save him this time?

I don’t know how long I sat there. Minutes blurred into hours, hours into a haze of trembling, of prayer, of silent curses at a world that demanded so much from so little. But when I finally lifted my head, my hands were red from clutching the paper so tightly, knuckles raw and aching.

I folded the bills carefully, almost reverently, tucking them into my pocket as though hiding them from the world would lessen their weight. I couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

For Carl. For Sofia.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, straightened my spine, and forced my feet to move. One step. Then another. Each movement was a small victory, a defiance of the despair that threatened to drown me.

I would fight. Every day. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

I would not let despair win.

I would not fail my children.

I would not—could not—fail Carl.

No matter the cost.

No matter the toll on my body, my mind, or my soul.

I would find a way.

I had to.

For them, I had to.

Even if it meant standing on the edge of exhaustion, staring into the abyss, and refusing to blink.

I would not give up.

Not now.

Not ever.