Chapter 3-A Son's Despair

The cold hospital room was silent, save for the faint sound of machines beeping in the distance. George sat curled up at the foot of his mother's bed, his small body trembling from both the cold and the fear that gripped his chest. His mother, Mary, lay still beside him, her face pale and lifeless. He had tried so hard to wake her, to make her get up, but the world felt like it had collapsed around him. She was gone, and no one seemed to care.

George had no idea how long he had been sitting there, the hours blending together in his mind. He was hungry, his stomach growling painfully, but the hospital food had long since been taken away. He had no idea where the nurses were, or why they hadn't come to check on his mother, or him. The room was empty, isolated, like no one else existed in the world except for him and Mary.

Desperation gripped George as he inched closer to his mother's body, burying his face in her cold chest. His small hands gripped the fabric of her hospital gown, seeking warmth, seeking comfort. But there was no warmth to be found. Only the coldness of death.

Hours passed, and George began to feel feverish. His body shook uncontrollably, his skin pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He fought to stay awake, but sleep was a cruel enemy that tugged at him. His head fell against his mother's chest, his small body collapsing beside hers. Despite the hunger, the cold, the fever, and the overwhelming sense of loss, George didn't want to leave her. He couldn't. She was all he had left in this cruel world.

But then, through the quiet, a sound broke the silence—footsteps in the hall. The janitor, an older man with a kind face, stepped into the room, his keys jangling as he looked around. His eyes widened when he saw the small child curled up next to Mary's body. "What in the world...?" he muttered, rushing over to them. He knelt down beside George, gently placing his hand on the boy's fevered brow.

"Hey, kid, what are you doing here?" he asked softly, his voice full of concern. George's eyes flickered open for a moment, and he whispered weakly, "Mommy... she's not waking up."

The janitor's face fell, and he immediately jumped to his feet, rushing out of the room to call for help. "Get some doctors in here!" he shouted as he sprinted down the hallway. Within moments, medical staff rushed into the room, but it was too late. Mary had passed away hours ago.

The staff's indifference was almost worse than the situation itself. They had ignored Mary, left her to die in a hospital bed while George had sat by her side, alone, suffering.

News of Mary's death spread quickly, and soon, George's grandparents, Lucia and John Green, arrived at the hospital. Their faces were grim as they stood in the hallway, their eyes filled with grief and anger. They had always known how little James cared for Mary, but seeing the child left alone in a room with his deceased mother was the final straw.

Lucia, Mary's mother, stormed into the room, her eyes blazing with fury. "This is all your fault!" she shouted at James, who stood frozen at the doorway, his face pale and guilt-stricken. "You've killed my daughter! You did this to her, and now you've left her son to suffer!"

John Green, normally a reserved man, was equally furious. "You are a coward, James. A coward who let his own wife die to save his mistress. And now, look at what you've done to this boy." His voice was cold, venomous.

George, still weak with fever, looked up at his grandparents, his eyes filled with pain. "I miss Mommy," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The guilt began to eat away at James. He stood silently, unable to defend himself. His mind was clouded with regret, but he knew he had done this. His selfishness, his obsession with Susana, had led to this. Mary had died because he had abandoned her, and now his son was left with nothing.

As George's fever worsened, he was rushed to another room, where he was placed on an IV drip to fight off the infection that was threatening to take his life. For three days, George fought for survival. The fever ravaged his body, but his will to live remained strong. He was all that was left of his mother, and he refused to let go.

James sat at the edge of George's bed, his face drawn with guilt and remorse. For the first time, he felt the weight of his actions. It was his fault that Mary was dead. It was his fault that George was sick. But as the days passed, his remorse turned inward, and he began to shift blame onto Susana.

"She pushed me into this," James muttered to himself one night, his voice barely a whisper. "She made me choose between them. She's the one who manipulated me, who got in my head." His mind was a tangle of contradictions—he felt guilty, but he still couldn't fully take responsibility for his actions. Instead, he lashed out, blaming Susana for everything that had happened.

But it was too late. The damage was done, and George, still weak from the fever, was the only one left to pick up the pieces.