Your three years old daughter Leah stood by your side, crying as you coughed up blood, your strength fading. “Mommy, you’re bleeding,” she whimpered. The cancer had taken it's toll, and worse than ever.

You tried to smile. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s just tired.”

Panicked, Leah grabbed your phone and called her father.

“What now?” he snapped when he answered. “I’m busy celebrating Mia’s daughter’s birthday.”

“Daddy, Mommy’s not okay!” Leah cried.

“Stop bothering me with nonsense,” he barked before hanging up.

Leah dropped the phone, sobbing. “Mommy, wake up!” she begged, shaking your hand, but you were already gone.

Hours later, your husband came home, reeking of alcohol and frustration. He found Leah sitting quietly by your side in the dark master bedroom.

“Leah, go to your room,” he muttered, not even glancing at you. “Mommy’s sleeping.”

“But, Daddy—”

“Go,” he snapped, closing the master bedroom door. Leah shuffled off, still sniffling, and curled up on the couch in her stained clothes.

The next morning, your husband woke up, grumbling. The house was eerily silent. He walked to the kitchen, frowning when he found no breakfast on the table.

“Of course,” he muttered. “She’s still in bed, isn’t she?”

He stormed into the bedroom, intending to scold you, but froze when he saw Leah’s clothes from the previous night, smeared with what he thought was paint.

“What is this mess?” he yelled, turning back to the room. He was about to wake you, but his phone rang.

It was Mia. “My daughter has a fever,” she said urgently. “Can you come over?”

His irritation melted into concern. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, walking out of the room without a second glance at you or Leah.

Leah, still hungry and scared, climbed onto the bed, shaking your still body.

“Mommy… Mommy, wake up,” she cried, her small voice breaking in the empty house.