The Ward That Never Was
3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
I remember the night Elena told me she needed help. She sat on the edge of our bed, clutching a pillow, her eyes red but dry. "I'm falling apart, Mark. I hear things. I can't be a mother like this." Her voice was a whisper, fragile as glass. I held her hand and promised we'd get through it together. The next morning, I called every psychiatric facility in the state. We settled on Cedar Hills, a private clinic an hour away. She packed a small bag, kissed our daughter Lily goodbye, and I drove her there through a gray drizzle. She didn't look back when she walked through the glass doors.
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