The night my son died, his father was in the same hospital.
Just one wall away, he held another woman’s son, let the boy call him Dad, and kissed that woman on the forehead.
Meanwhile, my four-year-old lay cold in my arms beneath a white sheet.
He died never knowing that the father he wanted most would rather save someone else’s child than open one door for his own.
That was the moment I was done.
He let his own son die for a fake wife and a fake family.
So I’ll take the one thing he loves most—his mafia throne.
