People change but they do so reluctantly and with the tiniest of increments. (NYPD Blue)

“The surgery,” he began as we both leaned forward, “was successful. Christian will live.” We both cried more. We hugged each other excitedly. I hoped my breath didn't smell like puke.

“When can we see him?”

“Family can go in right away. You're the mother?” She nodded. “And you are the wife? Fiancé?”

I shook my head. “I'm a friend.”

“You'll have to wait until tomorrow then.”

“Hope has waited so long,” she protested already moving toward his room.

“Sorry it's procedure.”

“That's fine,” I dismissed. “I just wanted to know he'd live.” I sighed victoriously. “I'm so glad he's going to be okay.” I stood and shook the doctor's hand. “Give Christian my regards,” I told his mother who nodded eagerly as she hurried the doctor along with her eyes.

They left and walked toward Christian. I watched them go.