Chapter 23
Jayne
It’s been a whole month since Rhys went on sabbatical, and now we’re hitting the last day of school, which always feels like a slow-motion landslide—field days, pizza parties, sign-this, donate-that, and the dreaded summer schedule.
If he thought schooldays were difficult, he has no idea how crazy it gets when the kids don’t have school.
This morning, I’m at the kitchen island with my laptop open and a cup of coffee that’s gone lukewarm. Rhys leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen like I’m trying to decode the genome.
We discussed it, and I ended up creating the schedule. He didn’t argue.
Lately, everything between us is like that—easy. I say, “Let’s do this,” and we do. He says he’ll handle something, and he does. Even Iris has nice things to say about Rhys, which I confess is fantastic to hear.
“Okay.” I point to the Excel sheet. “Mikaela’s at day camp from nine to three.
Finn has soccer conditioning three days a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays—then his coach added scrimmages on alternating Tuesdays.
Also, I enrolled him in an enrichment program.
Oh, and both of them have dentist appointments the second week of July. ”
Rhys blinks. “They do this every summer?”
“Every summer.”
He whistles low. “You’re like a one-woman logistics department.” He shakes his head, amused after he goes through my worksheet. “This is nuts. It’s like running an air-traffic control tower.”
I laugh, but there’s a flare of satisfaction, too.
He leans back against the counter, rubbing his neck. “No wonder you were exhausted all the time. And all of this is before dinner planning, laundry, and making sure no one’s melting down.”
“Yep.”
He glances at the screen again, then at me. I see regret swarm his beautiful blue eyes, which look more rested than they ever have. “You shouldn’t have had to do this alone,” he murmurs.
The man has apologized and made amends in a hundred different ways, and I don’t want him to continue carrying regret and guilt. The fact that he took a sabbatical is groundbreaking. I still can’t believe it most days.
“Well, lucky for me, you’re home now,” I tease.
“Lucky for you?” He grins, pulling me into a hug. “Lucky for me, baby.”
We do that a lot, too.
Hugging. Kissing. Making love.
Without having to do everything, I’m not tired all the time. And with him at home and not working, only handling the house and the kids, he isn’t exhausted either.
Our life is better for it.
A part of me wonders how we’ll manage when he goes back to the hospital, but I push the thought away.
I’m not borrowing trouble from tomorrow.
I won’t start doubting my husband, who has done everything he can to show the kids and me how much we matter to him.
He hasn’t said a word about sacrifice, hasn’t once hinted that staying home—juggling snack schedules instead of heart surgery—is driving him crazy.
So I choose to trust Rhys. To trust us. To believe we’ll find a way, and that we won’t slip back into the life we used to have.
Our new way of living means we have the bandwidth to do things as a family, not just on holidays, but also on weekends.
One Saturday morning at breakfast, Rhys tells us to make no plans for Sunday. That’s it—no hints, no details. Just, “Be ready by nine, wear sneakers.”
Finn’s suspicious. “Is this like one of those surprise dentist appointments?”
Rhys chuckles. “Do I look like a man who’d plan a dentist appointment on a Sunday?”
“Yes,” Mikaela and I say at the same time.
He puts a hand over his heart. “Ouch. No faith in your old man.”
But at nine sharp, we pile into the car, and twenty minutes later, I realize where we’re going.
Patapsco Valley State Park.
We haven’t been here since the kids were small enough to ride in backpacks.
Rhys drives with the windows down, letting in warm wind and birdsong. The sunlight flickers through the canopy of oak and sycamore, scattering shadows across the dashboard. The air smells like river stones, damp earth, and honeysuckle curling from the underbrush.
“We’re going for a hike?” Mikaela is excited.
“Really, Dad?” Finn groans.
But when we hit the trail, Finn is darting ahead of all of us.
The narrow dirt track is lined with ferns and wildflowers, and tree roots twist like veins underfoot, with sunlight shimmering off the river that runs alongside part of the path. Dragonflies skim the surface of the water, their wings catching flashes of iridescent blue.
Mikaela grabs Rhys’s hand and swings their arms dramatically with each step. I walk behind them, just enjoying the scenery—my kids, my man, and beautiful nature.
Halfway up the trail, Finn spots a rope swing dangling over a swimming hole where the river widens and slows. “Can I? Please?”
Rhys raises an eyebrow at me. “You okay with it?”
“Sure.” I wave a hand. “Go for it. Be careful. I don’t want to go to the ER today.”
Rhys kicks off his shoes and wades in with Finn, the water splashing up around his calves in bright, silvery arcs.
The river is clear enough that I can see the smooth stones under his feet, shifting as he steadies his stance.
He grabs the rope, tests its strength with a tug, then holds it out for Finn, who bounces on the balls of his feet, buzzing with adrenaline.
Rhys plants himself, muscles tightening as he anchors the rope, while Finn clutches it, takes three running steps, and launches himself into the air.
His whoop splits the quiet morning, echoing through the trees as he drops with a clean splash into the deep pool below.
Mikaela squeals, then kicks off her sneakers and races toward Rhys, her arms pinwheeling. “Me next! Daddy, me next!”
Rhys laughs, water droplets catching in his hair as he crouches to help her. “All right, baby girl. One hand here—yep, like that. Ready?”
She nods fiercely, gripping the rope with both small hands.
Rhys stands knee-deep in the river, steady and sunlit, guiding both our children into joy.
Mikaela squeals and claps.
I stay on the bank, watching the man I married—barefoot, laughing, drenched in sunlight and river water. My son beside him, a perfect miniature. We’re making new core memories, softening the sharp ones from the past few years.
Rhys turns then and catches my gaze. He smiles. It’s the one from before med school, before exhaustion and bitterness crept in.
By the time both kids have taken three turns each on the rope swing, they’re soaked.
Rhys waves them over and pulls a stack of beach towels from the backpack.
He dries Mikaela’s hair with one, rubbing gently until it stands up in damp little curls, then tosses another to Finn.
There’s even a small plastic bag for the wet clothes and a change of shirts for both kids.
Rhys packed all of it. Thought of all of it.
And watching him kneel in the shade, toweling off our son’s hair while barking a playful, “Hold still, bud,” I am astounded at how much he’s changed, how much effort he puts into everything.
Later, we settle at a picnic table beneath a spread of maples, their leaves casting soft, dappled shadows over us. The table is rough and sun-warmed beneath my hands. Cicadas hum in the distance. It’s idyllic.
Rhys unwraps the ham-and-cheese sandwiches he packed while Finn chugs iced tea from one of the two large thermoses.
Finn picks up his sandwich. “Dad, this is awesome. You should plan stuff more often.”
Rhys rubs a hand through his hair, delighted with our son’s request. “I will, bud.”
Mikaela leans her head on my shoulder. “Can we come back tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, baby,” I murmur. “But soon.”
Rhys glances at me over the kids’ heads. We smile at each other.
How long has it been since I felt that we were a team?
A long time. But we’re here now, and as I sit in the dappled light with my family, I decide to enjoy it, believe it, not wait for the other shoe to drop.