Chapter 24
Rhys
Six weeks into my sabbatical, and I’ve turned the kitchen into something between a command center and a slightly unhinged Pinterest board.
There’s a whiteboard calendar in the kitchen now. It’s color-coded, itemized, and highlighted. Dinner menus prepped for the week. Forms for camp filled out on time. Backpacks lined up by the door like surgical trays, ready for deployment.
Jayne wanders in just as I’m taping a “Snack Station” list to the fridge.
She raises an eyebrow over her coffee mug. “What exactly is that?”
“Inventory,” I say without looking up. “We ran out of Goldfish twice last week. I want to track our depletion rate.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re tracking our Goldfish depletion rate?”
“Efficiency prevents chaos.”
“Or causes it.”
I grin as I label the containers. Apple slices. Grapes. Granola bars. Carrots cut into little matchsticks, like I saw on YouTube.
From the table, Finn whispers loudly to Mikaela, “Dad’s reorganizing the planet again.”
“Don’t make eye contact,” Mikaela whispers back. “He’ll make us fold towels.”
Jayne snorts into her coffee.
I glance over my shoulder. “You’re all mocking the system.”
“We’re surviving the system,” Jayne says sweetly, patting my chest as she walks by.
“You know if I were a lesser man, I’d be offended,” I quip.
“Dad, you’re having way too much fun to be offended,” Finn retorts.
He’s right. I am having a great time. Being home, being part of the rhythm, watching how this family actually works is grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
One afternoon in month two, Claire drops by with iced coffees. She calls at least once a week, and this is the first time she’s come for a home visit. Yeah, she’s still playing psychologist.
“Paul tells me you’re terrorizing your household with color coding.” She hands me a cup.
“That traitor,” I mutter. I sent him pictures to show off, and he tattled on me. “If you must know, Claire, I’m improving efficiency.”
She gives the kitchen a slow, pointed once-over—the labeled bins, the immaculate counters, the aggressively tidy spice rack. “Ah. Yes. Efficiency. Every mother’s fantasy.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like Jayne.”
“That’s because Jayne is right.” She settles onto a stool at the kitchen island, therapist calm radiating off her like a force field. “So. Tell me—how’s the cardiac-style home management going?”
I sit too, smiling wide. “The other team members are…noncompliant.”
Claire clasps her hands, nodding like this is tragic but expected. “Love is a terrible environment for protocols.”
“I don’t know how she did it while she worked, Claire,” I remark, dryly. “Schedules, meals, drop-offs, pick-ups—there’s so much to track. I feel like an ass.”
“Rhys.” Her voice softens. “You’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“Do I?” I exhale and rub my chest. “Jayne says the same thing. But I feel like…I feel like I let her down, and now I’m taking six months off, and she’s all forgiving. I don’t deserve that.”
Claire looks at me with appreciation. “You’re a remarkable man.”
I cock an eyebrow. “I am?”
She shakes her head, chuckling. “I thought I’d find you here bitching and moaning about doing housework and you’ve color-coded shit.” She waves at the whiteboard. “Though…that’s a bit ridiculous, you know that right?”
I look at the board and shrug. “You say tomato, and I say that a color-coded snack rotation means that I’m not feeding my kids the same damn thing every day.”
Claire drinks her coffee. “I thought you’d struggle.”
“With what?”
“Surgery is control. Family is connection. One’s a skill. The other takes heart muscle.”
I give her a flat look, amusement curling low in my chest. “I’ve stopped skipping heart day at the gym.”
“Speaking of gyms, Paul says you aren’t going to one.”
That makes me sigh. “I go for a run every day after I get the kids off to camp or whatever. I just…I just don’t feel like going to the hospital.”
Claire dramatically slaps a hand to her chest. “You don’t feel like going to the hospital?”
“I know. I’m just as surprised.”
“Can you give Paul whatever it is you’re drinking?” she jokes and then adds, “But you might want to do something about that.” She points at my whiteboard again.
“You’re just envious of my organizational skills,” I tell her arrogantly. Right then, my phone buzzes, and it’s Mikaela’s camp.
I pick up, hands shaking. It’s never a good thing is it to have the camp call you in the middle of the day?
“Dr. Prescott?” a woman says. “This is Nurse Dalton from Roland Park Camp. Mikaela’s running a fever.”
My fatherly instincts fire instantly. “I’m on my way.”
I hurriedly get Claire out of the house, and ten minutes later, I am at the campgrounds.
Mikaela’s curled up on a little cot, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her forehead. She lifts her head when she sees me.
“Daddy?”
“Hey, Peanut.” I crouch beside her, smoothing her hair. “Let’s get you home.”
She nods, eyes glassy. “My head hurts.”
“I’ve got you.”
“My daddy is a doctor,” Mikaela tells Nurse Dalton, who gives me a perfunctory smile.
At home, I carry her inside and set her gently on the couch.
She curls onto her side immediately, small and limp with fever. I grab the soft gray blanket she loves and drape it over her legs, tucking it around her the way she likes.
“Too tight?” I ask.
She shakes her head, eyes half-closed.
I go to the cabinet, pour the right dose of children’s Tylenol into the tiny plastic cup, and kneel beside her.
“Okay, peanut. This’ll help.”
She sits up just enough to sip it, grimacing at the taste before sinking back into the cushions. I get her water bottle, fill it with cold water and a handful of ice, and place it within reach.
“Movie?” I ask.
A tiny nod.
I queue up Matilda—the original, because she says the remake “doesn’t have the right magic”—and lower the volume so it doesn’t overwhelm her headache. The opening notes start to play softly through the room.
Only then do I sit on the edge of the couch by her head.
She reaches for me, her small hand finding mine. She pulls my hand to her cheek, pressing her fever-warm face against my palm.
“Thank you for coming and getting me.”
“Always, Peanut. Always.”
I text Jayne and let her know. She calls within seconds.
“Is she okay? Should I come home?”
“She’s fine.” I stroke Mikaela’s hair as she lies curled up on the couch. “Watching Matilda. And no, you don’t have to come home.”
I hear the pride in my voice and instantly feel ridiculous. It felt damn good to tell my wife that I was fine taking care of my sick child.
“I’ll pick up Finn so you can stay with her,” she offers.
“That would be nice, baby,” I say, and the smugness drains right out of me.
Jayne’s done this exact thing a hundred times.
Without fanfare.
Without complaint.
Without ever expecting applause.
Without my help.
How did she manage it all?
Did she drag a sick kid into the car for pickup?
Did she scramble for a last-minute favor from Iris or another mom?
Did she just…make it work because she had no choice?
Fuck.
I am such an ass.
By the time the movie ends, Mikaela is fast asleep. My phone buzzes. Paul’s name blinks across the screen. I tiptoe to the kitchen so as not to wake her.
“Hey, man,” I answer quietly.
“How’s Mikaela? Claire mentioned you got a call from camp.”
I tell him that she’s sleeping.
“So…you free for a bit?” Paul asks hesitantly.
I glance into the living room. Mikaela is asleep, her curls stuck to the throw pillow.
Busy used to mean sprinting between ORs. Now it means monitoring a fever and replenishing my daughter’s water bottle.
“Not really,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a case that’s…complicated.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “And honestly, I’d love your eyes on it. No pressure. Just a second opinion.”
A month ago, the request would have lit me up. I would’ve said, “Yes, yes, yes,” before he even finished the sentence. But now, hearing him ask for help doesn’t spike my pulse.
“I can,” I reply slowly, surprised at myself. “But I don’t want to leave Mikaela. She’s feverish and knocked out on the couch.”
“I’m not asking you to come in.” I hear the sounds of a keyboard on Paul’s end. “I’ll email the scans. Look whenever. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whatever works.”
A soft laugh escapes me. “It’s weird. I’ve barely thought about the hospital this month.”
“Hell…I’m sorry to—”
“No, it’s fine.” I lean against the counter, watching my daughter breathe. “Really. I just…the thing is, I can say no to you. I’m not eager to read case files. I just…it’s surprising. I thought I’d miss it, you know?”
“That’s what I thought, too,” he admits. “But this is good. This means that you needed that sabbatical, you needed a break.”
He’s right. Constantly humming at surgical speed and being able to work long hours doesn’t mean you aren’t burned out.
I am starting to realize that staying home, being able to get a good night’s sleep, not living with stress and on coffee and a prayer, has been healthy for me. Emotionally and physically.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Look, send the email, and I’ll take a look at it after the kids go to bed.”
Silence.
“Paul?”
“It’s just…it’s good to hear you say that, Rhys, to prioritize your kids over work.”
I don’t even feel guilty about not helping out with a patient. There are several cardio surgeons at Camden. I’m Jayne’s only husband. I’m my kids’ only father.
“No promises on brilliance, but I’ll give you something as soon as I can.”
“That’s all I need,” he says. “And Rhys?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Me, too,” I confess. “Prouder than I’ve been of anything I’ve done in the OR.”
We hang up, and I slip back into the living room, lowering myself onto the couch beside Mikaela. She instinctively shifts, laying her head on my thigh.
And as I rest my hand over her small, warm back, I realize that even when I go back to the OR in a few months, I won’t go back the same man.
Because this quiet, steady, and ordinary life has rewired something essential in me.
I am content, and it’s a delicious feeling.
It’s not the high of surgery. It’s not the high of saving a life.
But it’s immensely fulfilling, and I’m not giving it up.