Each interaction with the hospital staff feels like a subtle power shift.
They hold the authority, and I am just a visitor, sidestepped in my own daughter’s care.
The nurses glance away when I try to ask about her condition.
It’s as if my presence is inconsequential.
My sister, on the other hand, is greeted with familiarity.
Her words seem to carry weight, where mine fall flat.
I’m told it’s for the best, but their reassurances feel hollow.
The room where my daughter lies is just beyond that door.
Yet, it feels miles away.
I’m left to piece together fragments of information from what little I’m told.
