Blinking lights and beeping monitors filled the silence of the hospital room, leaving no space for mindless thoughts. For the past three nights that is all I’ve heard. I had grown accustomed to the hospital fold-out bed, despite the soreness in my neck it gave me. All of that has now been replaced with a soft bed and the silence of my mother’s empty bedroom.  

The silence is overwhelming, only momentarily interrupted by the soft snores of my dog. The house is empty; no sound of obnoxious car shows blasting from the living room, no creaks from the twenty-something-year-old floorboards. My chest hurts, my eyes sting, and my breath feels heavy in my throat. A small sob echoing from the layers of blankets from my mother’s bed. It’s the third time I’ve cried ugly tears tonight. 

It’s just me and the vast, empty rooms of the house. My mother is miles away in a hospital bed, in pain and agony. Shame claws away at me; how could I do such a thing to her? This house does not feel like a home. The shadows in the corner of the rooms seem bigger and more intimidating. The house is a hollow catacomb that swallows me whole.