I felt my throat tighten.
Suddenly everything made sense—the way she stayed longer than required, the way her hand lingered on my shoulder when I was shaking, the way she never said “It’ll be okay” but somehow made it feel true.
She had been giving me a kind of comfort she once desperately needed herself.
When the segment ended, I just sat there, tears spilling onto my folded laundry. The memory of her—the dim hospital room, her voice in the darkness—washed over me so vividly it felt like I was back in that bed again.
I realized then that I had never truly thanked her.
Not with clarity.
Not with understanding.
So I reached out to the hospital, unsure if a message would ever reach her.
It did.
A few days later, a small envelope arrived in my mailbox—my name written in handwriting so familiar it made my heart flip.
Inside was a handwritten note.
She remembered me.
She remembered my son.
And she wrote that watching parents find their strength again—after believing they had none left—was the most precious reward she could imagine.
Her words were simple. But they carried weight.
Sometimes they wear scrubs.
Sometimes they knock softly on your door in the middle of the night.
Sometimes they heal you in ways you don’t fully understand until years later.
Continued on next page:
