Everyone calls you Mom. The doctors, the nurses, the cafeteria staff. You wear it like a sweater with a little puke on it— naturally. They don’t need to know your name. They know why you are there. They bring you a pillow and a blanket for your window-seat bed. They bring you shampoo. They put medicine into the IVs at the proper times and squeeze fluid from the drainage tube. They move him onto your chest so you won’t have to navigate the tubes and lines. They tell you where to hold him. It starts to feel, if not like home, homelike. And when you leave, they wave and then they do it all again.