SHE STAYS

MAYA'S POV

The bakery box in my hands is heavy, filled with the chocolate dinosaur cake my son, Leo, has been talking about for a month. Six years old today. My heart feels light, a balloon ready to soar. I picture his face, the gap-toothed grin, the way he'll launch himself at his father, Daniel. I've already texted Daniel three times this morning. Don't forget, 5 PM sharp at home. Surprise! He never replied, but he's been busy. I make excuses for him even before I need to.

I balance the box with one arm, fumbling with my keys at our front door. The house isn't quiet. Laughter spills from the living room. A child's high-pitched giggle that isn't Leo's. Confusion prickles my skin. Did Daniel invite people over for the party without telling me? My surprise plan, ruined.

I push the door open.

The scene in my living room is a photograph from someone else's life. Balloons are tied to the chair, but they are silver and blue, not Leo's favorite fiery red. A banner hangs over the mantel. It reads, "Congrats Grad!"

And there they are.

Daniel, my husband of six years, has his arm around a woman. She leans into him, her smile familiar and terrible. I know her instantly from the one picture he could never bring himself to throw away. Clara. His first love. The one who moved away, the one he said was just a memory.

Between them is a little girl, maybe five, wearing a tiny cardboard graduation cap. She blows on a noisemaker.

My Leo stands by the staircase, holding a single blue balloon, his small face a mask of confused hurt. He's still in his school uniform.

The balloon box slips from my numb fingers. It hits the floor with a sickening, soft thud.

All noise stops. Daniel's smile freezes, then melts into shock. "Maya? You're home early."

Clara straightens, her hand staying on Daniel's arm. "Oh, hello," she says, as if I'm a neighbor dropping by.

I can't breathe. The air is syrup. "Leo's birthday," I manage to choke out. "It's today."

Daniel's eyes widen. A genuine, horrifying blankness fills them. He forgot. He looks from the cake box on the floor to the banner, to Clara's daughter, Lily, and then to our son. "Oh, God. Leo. I..."

"We were just finishing up," Clara says smoothly, her voice a gentle poison. "Lily had her kindergarten graduation ceremony today, and Daniel wanted to celebrate. He's been so supportive."

Supportive. The word is a knife. I see the paper plates with cake crumbs. Our plates. I see the presents stacked by the door, wrapped in princess paper. Not a single one for Leo.

Leo runs to me, burying his face in my leg. I feel his silent tears through the fabric of my pants.

"Maya, let me explain," Daniel starts, taking a step forward.

But there is no explanation. The ground is gone. I am falling. I pick up the ruined cake box, take Leo's cold hand, and walk out of my own living room. We go upstairs. I close his bedroom door and sit with him on the bed, holding him as he cries quiet, confused sobs. I don't cry. I am made of shattered glass.

Downstairs, I hear murmurs, the front door closing, then silence. A long time later, Daniel knocks. Leo is asleep, exhausted from heartbreak.

"Go away," I say, my voice flat and final.

The world moves in a fog for a week. Daniel tries to talk. Words like "innocent celebration," "old friends," and "I'm sorry" bounce off me. I am a stone. My only focus is Leo, who has become too quiet.

Then, the world breaks completely.

It starts with a fever. A high, fierce burn that medicine won't touch. Then the seizures. The ambulance ride is a blur of sirens and my own voice, begging, praying.

In the sterile, beeping chaos of the Pediatric ICU, my boy looks small. Tubes and wires surround him. The doctor says words like "severe infection" and "medically-induced coma." My knees buckle. Daniel isn't here. I called him twelve times. His phone goes to voicemail.

For three days and three nights, I live in a plastic chair by Leo's bed. I hold his limp hand. I talk to him about his dinosaurs, his favorite park, the way the sun looks in the morning. I beg him to fight.

And then, in the deepest hour of the night, his lips move. A dry, cracked whisper. "Daddy?"