The mother looked toward her.
The sister's eyes filled.
"You need to show up."
For several seconds, the mother stood motionless.
Then she nodded.
And together, they left for the hospital.
The mother reached the children's hospital shortly after four.
She hadn't been inside for eleven days.
Yet everything looked painfully familiar.
The automatic doors.
The information desk.
The mural of brightly colored animals near the elevators.
And the small cafΓ© where she'd once bought a sandwich before realizing she couldn't swallow a single bite.
Her sister walked beside her.
The mother held her handbag with both hands.
Every few steps, she slowed.
She felt as though the hospital itself remembered what she'd done.
The missed visits.
The unanswered calls.
The promises she'd made to herself every morning and broken before noon.
When they reached the pediatric floor, her breathing became shallow.
Her sister stopped.
"Look at me."
The mother raised her eyes.
"He's going to be angry."
"Maybe."
The answer surprised her.
Her sister continued.
"He has a right to feel hurt."
The mother began crying.
"I know."
"But that doesn't mean he stopped loving you."
The younger woman wiped her face.
"What if he doesn't want me?"
Her sister's eyes filled.
"Then you listen to him. You don't disappear again."
The mother nodded.
They continued toward the nurses' station.
The social worker was waiting.
She greeted the mother gently.
Then suggested they speak privately before entering the boy's room.
The mother agreed.
Inside a small consultation office, the social worker explained that the child had been asking about his mother's absence.
He wondered whether his injuries were the reason she stopped visiting.
The mother lowered her head.
"Oh, God."
The social worker continued carefully.
The boy needed reassurance.
He also needed honesty that was appropriate for his age.
He didn't need to carry adult guilt.
And he shouldn't be asked to decide who was responsible for the fire.
The mother listened.
Then whispered, "I thought seeing me would upset him."
The social worker looked toward her.
"What made you think that?"
The mother swallowed.
"Every time I looked at his face, I remembered leaving him inside."
Her voice broke.
"I couldn't stop apologizing."
The social worker remained quiet.
The mother continued.
"I was afraid he'd remember the smoke when he saw me."
She covered her face.