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“Oh, my God.”

My hand flew to my mouth. It was Giovani, and there was no mistaking him. I would know that face anywhere.

“Baby?”

I moved closer while shaking my head.

“Giovani?”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t answer. But some foolish part of me had expected him to open his eyes when he heard my voice. I stared at him, taking in every little detail.

His beard had grown out so much that it covered more of his face than I was used to seeing. His hair needed cutting, and the edges that he’d always been so particular about weren’t even lined up anymore. I could tell he’d lost weight too. His cheeks weren’t as full, and there was something about his appearance that told me he hadn’t been taking care of himself.

“Look at you, baby.”

My voice cracked.

“You know you needed a haircut.”

I reached toward his face but stopped. I didn’t know why I was afraid to touch him. I had spent his entire life kissing his cheeks, wiping his tears, and fussing over him whenever he got sick. Yet here I was, afraid to put my hand on my own child.

“May I touch him?” I asked.

The woman nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I placed my palm against his cheek. He was cold. So cold that I immediately started crying.

“Oh, Giovani.”

I rubbed my thumb along his beard.

“What happened to you, baby?”

The tears came faster.

“Why didn’t you come home?”

I leaned over him, careful not to disturb the sheet covering his body.

“Mama would’ve helped you. Whatever was going on, you could’ve come home.”

I knew that wasn’t entirely true. There were things Giovani had gotten himself involved in that I couldn’t fix. I’d learned that a long time ago. But standing there looking at him, I would’ve given anything for another chance to try.

I would’ve let him come back. I would’ve cooked for him every day, washed his clothes, and fussed at him about leaving dishes in the sink. I would’ve done anything if it meant having my son alive. I brushed my fingers over his forehead.

“You remember how you used to hate getting your hair combed when you were little?”

A broken laugh escaped me.

“You’d run all through that house every time I came looking for you with that brush.”

I could still see him. My little boy running down the hallway in his underwear, laughing because he thought hiding behind the couch meant I couldn’t find him. He was such a beautiful little boy. And I’d loved him so much. I still did.

That was the cruelest part of all of this. My love hadn’t gone anywhere, but I no longer had a living son to give it to.

“Ms. Baxter?” the woman said softly.