My Ghost Still Protects My Son
Language: en
I died in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the very hospital my wife built, shortly after being forced to undergo a "procedure" for the sake of the man she truly loved. Before I took my last breath, my six-year-old son, Toby, begged her three times. The first time, Toby reached out and caught her hand. His voice was trembling, telling her that I was coughing up blood. Madeline just sneered, her eyes cold as flint. "You’re getting better at this," she said, looking down at our son as if he were a stranger’s dog. "Teaching a child to lie for you? That’s a new low, Ben." With a flick…