That Day

I was racing against time, and just when I wished for a miracle to happen, the rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets into rivers. My hands clenched the steering wheel as the hospital drew closer, my heart pounding louder than the windshield wipers. 11:57 p.m. glared from the dashboard clock. I was cutting it way too close.
Mom wasn’t supposed to go this fast. The doctor’s voice on the phone had been calm, but I heard what he didn’t say. “If you want to see her… You should come now.”
I blew through a red light, ignoring the honk and flash of headlights behind me. Parking didn’t matter—I left the car halfway on the curb and sprinted through the ER entrance, soaked to the bone and gasping for breath.
“I’m here for Clara Morgan,” I managed to say.
The nurse looked at me, surprised. “Room 412. End of the hall, on the left.”
I didn’t wait for the elevator. I ran up the stairs two at a time, lungs burning. My brain just kept repeating, Please don’t be too late. Please hold on, Mom.
When I pushed open the door, everything slowed. She was so still. For a second, I thought I’d missed her. But then, her eyes fluttered open.
“You made it,” she whispered, barely audible.
I reached for her hand. It was warm.
And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, time stopped—just long enough.