His name was Nathaniel

17

The hours that followed Nathaniel's rushed entry into surgery felt like an eternity for those who waited. Edward paced the length of the hallway outside the operating room, his footsteps echoing off the cold, sterile walls. His face was set in a mask of stoic resolve, but every so often, his façade would crack, and the fear he was trying so hard to suppress would flicker in his eyes.

He had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to remain calm and composed in the face of any challenge. But this—this was something else entirely. His only son was lying on an operating table, fighting for his life, and there was nothing Edward could do to help him. The helplessness gnawed at him, wearing away at the stone-like exterior he had built over the years.

The doctors and nurses moved quickly, their faces set in concentration as they worked to stabilize Nathaniel and address the internal blockage that had nearly taken his life. Edward could hear the murmurs of their voices through the door, but the words were indistinct, adding to the agonizing uncertainty.

Every few minutes, Edward would stop pacing to demand an update from one of the nurses, his voice sharp with a tension he could barely keep under control. The answers were always the same: "We're doing everything we can, sir," or "He's stable for now, but it's still touch-and-go." It wasn't enough to calm the storm raging inside him, but it was all they could give him.

Greg had positioned himself in a chair nearby, hands clasped tightly together as he whispered silent prayers for Nathaniel's survival. He had seen the boy grow up, had watched over him with the same care and devotion that he had once given to Nathaniel's mother. And now, all he could do was wait and hope that the boy he loved like a son would pull through.

The minutes dragged into hours, each one more torturous than the last. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the surgeon emerged from the operating room, his face lined with exhaustion but showing a faint glimmer of hope.

"He's stable," the doctor announced, his voice firm but tired. "The surgery was successful, and we managed to remove the blockage. But he's still very weak. It's going to take time for him to recover fully, and he's not out of the woods yet."

Edward felt a surge of relief so intense it nearly brought him to his knees. He nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough. "Thank you."

The doctor gave a brief nod, glancing back toward the operating room. "He's being moved to recovery now. He'll need to be closely monitored for the next 24 hours. We'll let you know as soon as there's any change."

Edward's relief was short-lived, replaced almost immediately by a gnawing worry. Nathaniel might have survived the surgery, but he hadn't woken up yet. And as long as he remained unconscious, there was no telling how severe the damage might be.

The hours dragged on as Nathaniel was transferred to the recovery room. Edward sat at his son's bedside, watching the rise and fall of Nathaniel's chest, every shallow breath a fragile reassurance that he was still alive. Greg hovered nearby, quietly offering whatever comfort he could, though he knew that nothing he could say would ease Edward's fears.

The day slipped into night, and still, Nathaniel remained unconscious, his body seemingly too exhausted to wake. Edward refused to leave his side, his eyes never straying from his son's pale face. Each time the nurses came in to check his vitals, he would tense, waiting for some sign, some indication that Nathaniel was on the mend. But there was nothing.

As the first light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Edward's exhaustion finally caught up with him, his eyes drooping as he fought to stay awake. He rested his head in his hands, his mind racing with memories of Nathaniel's childhood, of all the times he had pushed the boy away, all the moments he had missed. Regret gnawed at him, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to feel the weight of it.