if you make a wish on a shooting star

CW: References to substance abuse and domestic violence

Buzz.

I reach for my phone, hoping for some good news. But it's only Stacy wishing me goodnight. I don't bother to respond or remind her that not everyone goes to bed at two a.m. She should know better than to text me at such a time. I sigh, realizing she probably knew I'd be awake; everyone likely does. I'm never going to fall back asleep now... Not that I was sleeping in the first place.

Buzz.

This time, for sure! But no, it's Mark. Look at that! He's asking if I'm still awake. Yes, I am. A minute passes, then, "Are you doing okay?" Ha! When have I ever been okay? I shake my head. My younger brother was never too good at picking up on these kinds of cues, but he is sweet. I shut my phone and stare at the ceiling, trying to block out all the thoughts that have been chasing me all night.

My mind flashes back to the memory from two months ago. I still remember it vividly—the rain dripping down the windows, Little Lila screaming at me to come downstairs, and seeing you sprawled across the tiles. I still remember the way you looked that drive in the ambulance: all pale and frightening. I had been in my pajamas, had only grabbed my purse, not having time to even get dressed. I had never prayed to God before, but then and there, I begged Him to save you. I haven't stopped praying since.

We reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights and my pounding headache. Then they hooked you up. A doctor came in and told me you had a heart attack—uncommon for someone so young. They asked if you were an addict; my silence was all they needed. I tried to be optimistic for the kids, but the doctors said they didn't know if you would ever wake up. I haven't slept a night since then. I stayed in the hospital with you, the beeping machines my only company. An occasional nurse slipped in and out to take your vitals. Endless nights of just me and you alone. One month passed, two. And then your sisters came. They shooed me away, told me to stay home for a week, and try to catch up on sleep. As if I'd ever sleep again.

When I first noticed the bottles in the fridge, I didn't want to believe their significance. Yet there they were, multiplying each week, a silent testament to a growing problem.

"What's going on..... with these bottles?" I asked one evening, trying to keep my voice steady. You crossed your arms defensively, avoiding eye contact. "It's nothing," you replied, your voice laced with irritation.

But it wasn't nothing. The bottles kept appearing, and so did the changes in you. Your once vibrant eyes were now clouded, your laughter replaced with a sullen silence. I tried to ignore it, hoping it was a phase, but one night I couldn't stand it any longer. I threw all the bottles away, my hands trembling as I did so.

That's when you exploded. Your scream was a raw, piercing sound that seemed to echo through the walls. "How dare you!" you had yelled, your face contorted with rage. The fight escalated, voices clashing like thunder in the night, until finally, you lashed out and hit me.

The next morning, you were filled with remorse, your eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice breaking. "I promise I'll stop drinking." I wanted so desperately to believe you, and for a while, I did. I clung to your words, hoping they would lead us back to the love we once shared.

But the bottles returned. "What happened to stopping?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, dreading the answer.

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the floor. "I thought I could handle it, but I can't," you admitted, your voice tinged with sadness.

"We need help," I said gently, hoping to find a way forward. "Together, we can get through this."

Just then, you snapped, your voice rising once more. "I don't need your help!" you shouted, anger flaring anew. "I'm fine on my own!"

The room was filled with our shouting, a cacophony of accusations and defenses, until finally, we both fell silent, exhausted and unresolved. The silence hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the chasm that had opened between us.

I'd left with the kids for a week. That's all it took for it to go from bad to worse.

My eyes fill with tears as they fall on a picture of you, me, and the kids just three months ago, sitting at the beach. Oh, how I wish I could turn back time. I rub my temples and walk over to my window. The soft glow of the moon spills over my room. The stars twinkle mischievously, and then I see it—a shooting star. I marvel at its beauty. How could one thing so small shine so bright? And then I remember that night in the hotel, when Lila turned to me and said:

"Miss Laurence said that if you wish on a star—on a shooting star—your wish will come true." I had smiled at her, but in my mind, I thought it was so silly, so childish to wish on a star, as if that could possibly do anything!

I'd never believed in shooting stars, but now, in this moment, as I gaze at that shining ball of light, a desperate plea bursts forth from my lips.

"Please, please make my husband okay. Please give me a sign. Anything. I'll change myself. I'll be a better person. I'll take more time for the kids. I'll be a better daughter, sister, mother, wife. Just please heal my husband." I return to my bed, albeit feeling foolish for being so childish.

Buzz.

I don't dare to hope. Maybe it was my wish? I laugh at my naivety. "You're a 30-year-old woman," I berate myself. "You don't even know if it's good news." But deep down in that nook by my heart, oh I dare, I swipe my phone open and gasp.

He's awake.