I opened my laptop, logged in, and answered emails with my boy’s frail hand curled inside mine, his IV line trembling every time I moved. Eyes flicked toward us and away again, as if looking too long might burn. No one could pretend not to understand what they were seeing.
In the days after, masks slipped. Some coworkers sent stiff, careful messages; others showed up with coffee, blankets, and the courage to sit in the unbearable. HR came armed with policy and regret, but a stranger’s video had already turned my quiet act into something louder than any meeting.
When my son finally whispered “Dad?”, it cut through the noise. In that moment, I chose him, chose myself, and walked away from a place that counted my hours but never my heart.