The door to the room was ajar.
“Is she asleep?” I asked. “Don’t wake her up.”
But the woman gently shook her mother, who blinked, then held her arms out. My daughter went first, hugging her gently, then me, feeling how fragile she was.
She was wearing pretty pajamas instead of a hospital gown. No poking or prodding necessary; just pain medications to keep her comfortable.
“Sit down,” she instructed, and we did. We each held one of her hands, talking, smiling.
We hugged her again, told her we loved her.
And we left, not able to say the words “goodbye.”
Write a story in exactly 101 words.
