The night my husband Daniel was admitted to the hospital after a car accident, my world shrank to the sharp scent of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of machines. He had been on his way home from work when another driver ran a red light. The doctors said he was fortunate to survive, though recovery would take weeks. I practically lived at the hospital, sleeping in an unforgiving chair beside his bed and surviving on vending-machine coffee and constant anxiety.
That was when I became aware of the elderly woman in the neighboring bed.
Her name was Margaret. She appeared to be in her late seventies—fragile, with silver hair always carefully braided. Unlike us, she never had visitors. No spouse, no children, no bouquets on her bedside table. Meals brought by the nurses often went untouched. She would stare at the tray as though eating alone hurt more than being hungry.
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