Every time I breathed in, the clinical, sterile smell of the hospital had turned into a suffocating weight, a sensory trigger that brought to mind my biggest failure. Lucas, my three-year-old kid, looked completely different. Thick bandages, sobbing skin, and the structural debris of third-degree burns replaced the once-soft cheeks and quick, dimpled smile. I felt like my spirit was breaking every time I entered his room. The guilt that informed me I was unfit to be his mother was a loud roar rather than a soft murmur.
