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Nunie has always tiptoed throughout most of her life. She's lived in careful consideration of everyone around her.
She's bit her tongue—refrained from speaking, from saying the wrong words to the wrong persoon and causing calamity.
She's a careful—cautious—person by nature. Until now, she's had no one but herself to rely on. No one but herself to keep her pushing forward.
Until, she remembers the one person she has fought tooth and nail to protect—
Nunie lurches up out of her sleep. There's an IV hooked up to her—wires in her arms, but she doesn't care. Her throat is dry and raw, like she hasn't spoken in days. Her body is aching—pain electrifying her all over, but Nunie barely realizes it.
Where is her baby?
That's her first thought.
She looks around the room curiously—its empty, save for her grandparents who jolt awake next to her—her abuelita's head resting on her abuelito's shoulder as they share a rugged blanket and a rickety hospital lounge chair that shifts into a bed.
"Mija—" Her abuelita starts, but Nunie is already forcing herself off the bed, wincing as sparks of pain shoot up her legs. "Mija, don't move yet, hold on—"
"N-no," Nunie grits her teeth, standing up on her wobbly feet. She refuses to listen although rationally, she knows she's in no position to be moving around or overexerting herself.
"Tómalo con calma (take it easy)," her abuelito says, but Nunie just shakes her head, because she is determined to see him by any means necessary.
"Wait, mija, just let me—" Her abuelita jumps up, scrambling around the room, before she unfolds a wheelchair stationed in the corner for Nunie to sit in. Nunie is stubborn, but she knows her abuelita means well and that she will follow her—take her wherever she wants to go. It takes her five excruiating long minutes to walk over to the wheelchair, settling in it—wincing as the pain erupting in her lower half. Her abuelito pulls her tower connected to her IV closer, and Nunie holds it. She sees herself across the room in a small square mirror plastered to the wall. She looks tired—her hair is combed at least, she assumes that's her abuelita's work—and Nunie wipes the gunk out of her eyes, patting her cheeks lightly as her abuelita drapes a blanket over Nunie to cover her legs.
"P-please, take me—"
"I know, mija," her abuelita interrupts her, a small smile on her face as she yawns quietly, "he's okay. Lo hiciste bien (you did good)."
He's okay.
He's okay.
As her abuelita begins to wheel her out of the room, huffing with each step—her abuelito moves to take over, his wife hooking her arm in his as he uses his strength to push Nunie to see her son. Nunie holds onto her tower eagerly.
