Nick
Itighten my tie in the bedroom mirror, then loosen it because apparently I’ve forgotten how ties are supposed to work.
“Looks fine.”
I catch Leah watching me from the bed. “You’re heavily medicated. Your opinion is compromised.”
“I’m not that medicated.”
“Yesterday you cried because Grady brought you pudding.”
“He brought me the chocolate one.”
“Exactly my point.”
I cross the room and check the little setup on the nightstand for what has to be the fourth time. “Phone?”
“Right here.”
“Charger?”
“Plugged in.”
“Water?”
She points to the giant cup beside her.
“Pain meds?”
“Nicholas.”
“What?”
“I survived cancer. I think I can survive three hours without you supervising my water intake.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“Same thing.”
Grady comes barreling through the doorway with his backpack hanging off one shoulder. “I found it!”
“Good job, partner. Shoes next.”
He looks down at his socked feet.
“Oh.”
He disappears again.
I turn back to Leah. “You sure you’re okay here?”
She holds out her hand, and I go to her immediately.
“I can get up. I can use the bathroom. I have everything I need, and you’ll probably be home before noon.” Her fingers straighten my tie. “Go take care of our boy.”
Something about the our catches me right in the chest.
I bend carefully and kiss her, keeping one hand braced beside her so I don’t put any pressure on her stomach.
“I love you.”
Her lips brush mine again. “I love you too.”
From the hallway, Grady yells, “I FOUND MY SHOES!”
I close my eyes.
Leah laughs against my mouth.
“Go, Dad.”
And damn if that doesn’t get me too.
The courthouse is smaller than I expected, although I’m not sure what I expected in the first place.
Maybe something closer to what they show on television instead of a room with polished wooden benches, flags tucked into either corner, and a judge’s bench that looks like it’s been here longer than half the people in the building.
David leads me toward the front, and I follow because I’ve learned over the last few weeks that when it comes to anything involving Grady and the court system, my best option is to shut the hell up and do whatever my lawyer tells me.
He sets his briefcase on the table and pulls out his chair.
“You sit here.”
“I gathered that.”
“Just making sure. You look a little lost.”
“I perform brain surgery for a living.”
“And yet somehow family court has defeated you.”
I glance at him while I unbutton my jacket and sit. “You enjoying this?”
“Immensely.”
Asshole.
The caseworker is already here, sitting at the table across the aisle with a stack of files in front of her.
She catches my eye and gives me a small smile, which helps more than I want to admit.
At least there’s one person in this room besides David who already knows I’m not some asshole who woke up three weeks ago and decided I wanted somebody else’s kid.
I’ve been Grady’s dad for five years.
Apparently, today I have to start proving it on paper.
A door opens behind the judge’s bench, and David gets to his feet.
I follow him, along with everyone else in the courtroom, as the bailiff announces the judge. She walks in carrying a folder, settles into her chair, and tells us we can sit.
A few cases go before ours. I try to listen, but mostly I sit there with my knee bouncing beneath the table while David occasionally reaches over and puts a hand on it without looking at me.
“Stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re shaking the table.”
I plant both feet on the floor.
Then the clerk calls Grady’s name.
Everything inside me tightens.
David stands, and this time I’m already moving with him.
The judge looks down at the file in front of her, turns a page, then looks directly at me.
“Dr. Crawford?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I understand Grady has remained in your care under the temporary placement order.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
“And how is he doing?”
For the first time since I walked into this room, I don’t have to think about the answer.
“He’s doing good.”
The judge makes a note on the file in front of her. “And he’s adjusted well to the placement?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“He’s attending school consistently?”
“Every day.”
She glances toward the caseworker. “And there have been no concerns during the home visits?”
“No, Your Honor. The home is appropriate, and Grady appears comfortable and well bonded with Dr. Crawford.”
Well bonded feels like a strange way to describe a kid who crawls into my bed at five in the morning because he wants to know whether sharks existed before Saturn had rings, but I’ll take it.
The judge asks about my work schedule next, who takes care of Grady when I’m at the hospital, whether I have reliable childcare, and how I plan to manage his appointments.
Nothing David didn’t prepare me for, but my palms still sweat through every answer because I know there’s more riding on them than whether I sound competent.
Eventually, she turns back to the papers in front of her.
“I also have a sworn affidavit submitted in support of continued placement.”
I glance at David.
He doesn’t look at me.
That motherfucker knows something.
The judge adjusts her glasses. “This is from Leah Harrison.”
My head turns so fast toward David that he finally looks over.
“When did she—”
“Later,” he whispers.
The judge begins reading.
“Ms. Harrison identifies herself as both Grady’s classroom teacher and his paternal aunt. She states that when Grady first entered her classroom, he was struggling academically, socially, and behaviorally, and that his needs had frequently gone unmet.”
My throat tightens.
“She further states that she witnessed a significant change after Dr. Crawford became actively involved in Grady’s daily care.”
The courtroom disappears around me.
“According to Ms. Harrison, Grady became more confident, engaged more consistently with his peers, and began making measurable progress in the classroom. She writes…”
The judge pauses.
“‘I knew Grady before I knew he was my nephew. I loved him first as my student, and I love him now as my family. In both roles, I have watched him become a happier, safer, more confident child because of Nick Crawford.’”
I stare down at the table.
Of course she did this.
Of course she somehow found a way to be here without actually being here.
The judge continues.
“‘Whatever biology may say, Grady knows Nick as his father. More importantly, Nick knows Grady as his son. I respectfully ask this court to consider what removing that relationship would mean to a child who has already lost more stability than any five-year-old should.’”
I blink hard and look toward David.
He gives me the smallest smile.
The judge sets the affidavit down.
“Dr. Crawford?”
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out rough.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“I believe it’s fair to say you have substantial support for this placement.”
For the first time all morning, I let myself breathe.
I spend the entire drive home thinking about that affidavit.
Every damn word of it.
Leah wrote that for me while recovering from major surgery, knowing she couldn’t sit beside me in that courtroom, so she found another way to show up. She stood beside me anyway.
By the time I pull into the driveway, all I want is to get inside, wrap my arms around her, and tell her what she did to me in that courtroom.
“Darlin’?” I call as I step inside.
Nothing.
“Leah?”
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear crying coming from the bathroom.
My stomach drops.
I push the cracked door open and find her sitting on the edge of the tub, shirt pulled up, supplies scattered around her feet. Her hands are trembling as she struggles with the adhesive around her colostomy bag.
“Come on,” she whispers through her tears. “Please just stick.”
Then she sees me.
Her hands immediately cover her stomach.
“Nick, please.” Her face crumples. “Go away.”
“I can help.”
“No.” She turns away from me, wiping angrily at her cheeks. “Just go away, Nick. Please.”
“I don’t want to go away.”
“Well, I don’t want you to see me like this.”
I take another step into the bathroom. “See you like what?”
“Like this!” Her hand gestures helplessly toward her stomach before falling into her lap. “I’m supposed to be your hot girlfriend. I’m not supposed to be a cancer patient who shits in a bag and can’t even figure out how to put the stupid thing on by herself.”
“Okay. Whoa.”
“No, it’s not okay.” Her voice breaks. “This is awful. I hate this. I hate looking at myself, and I hate that I have to do this, and then I’m going to start chemo and probably lose my hair again, and I just…” She presses both hands over her face. “I feel like I’m losing myself all over again.”
I crouch in front of her.
“You’re right.”
Her hands slowly lower.
“This is awful. Cancer is awful. That bag sucks, chemo is going to suck, and if you lose your hair, you’re allowed to hate every fucking second of it.” I reach up and wipe a tear from her cheek. “But none of those things change what I see when I look at you.”
A wet laugh slips out of her.
“I’m serious. You have cancer. Cancer doesn’t get to have you.” I take her hand. “You’re here, and you’re fighting, and I’m right here fighting with you. So please, let me be here so you don’t have to feel so damn alone.”
“Why do you even want this?” Her voice breaks as she gestures toward herself. “I’m about to go through menopause before I’m even thirty. I can barely take care of myself. I can’t even change this stupid bag without crying, and I can’t…” She swallows hard. “I can’t give you children, Nick.”
“Stop.”
She looks at me.
“You’re wrong.” I take her trembling hands in mine. “You already gave me a child.”
Her brow furrows.
“You gave me Grady.”
“Nick—”
“They read your affidavit today.” My throat tightens just thinking about it. “Every word, darlin’. And because of you, he’s staying with me. You stood up for me when you couldn’t even be in that courtroom.”
Tears fill her eyes.
“Maybe we don’t get another kid. Maybe we grieve that together. But don’t ever tell me you haven’t given me a family.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “The best thing that ever happened to me calls me Dad, and you helped make damn sure he gets to keep doing it.”
She looks down at the supplies.
“I keep getting the adhesive stuck together.”
“Okay.”
After a long hesitation, she holds one side toward me.
“Just hold this part. And don’t look.”
I pinch it carefully between my fingers. “Like this?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
She takes a shaky breath and starts again.
And this time, we do it together.
We finish the bag together, and when the last edge is finally sealed, Leah stares down at it like she doesn’t quite trust that it’s going to stay.
Her cheeks are still pink when she pulls her shirt down.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I turn on the faucet and wash my hands. “No sweat, darlin’. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I still hate it.”
“You’re allowed to hate it.”
Her phone starts ringing from the bedroom.
She closes her eyes. “Can you grab that?”
I glance over my shoulder with a grin. “Look at you asking for help.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I jog into the bedroom and grab her phone from the nightstand, but the smile disappears when I see the name on the screen.
Her oncologist’s office.
When I walk back into the bathroom, Leah takes one look at my face.
“Is that them?”
I nod.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I hand her the phone.
I motion toward the hallway, silently asking if she wants privacy, but she immediately shakes her head.
“Stay.”
I sit beside her on the edge of the tub while she answers and puts the call on speaker.
Her doctor doesn’t waste much time before explaining that the final pathology is back.
The cancer was confirmed in the remaining ovary, exactly as they feared, but the bowel specimens were negative for malignancy.
The extensive damage they found there came from adhesions consistent with her endometriosis and previous surgeries, not metastatic disease.
Leah’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Wait.” Her voice trembles. “I just want to make sure I understand. The cancer was only in my ovary? It wasn’t in my bowel?”
“That’s correct. There was significant bowel involvement from the adhesions, which is why the operative findings were so concerning, but pathology found no evidence of malignancy in the bowel specimens.”
Leah covers her mouth.
Her doctor continues, explaining that she still recommends chemotherapy because this is a recurrence and they want to reduce the risk of microscopic disease remaining elsewhere. They’ll go over the treatment plan at her oncology appointment once she’s recovered a little more from surgery.
Leah manages to thank her before ending the call.
Then she just sits there.
I don’t say anything because there isn’t anything useful enough to fill the silence.
Her phone slips into her lap.
“It wasn’t in my bowel,” she whispers.
“No.”
Her face crumples.
I barely get my arms open before she folds into me, crying so hard her whole body shakes. I hold her carefully against my chest, and somewhere between feeling her tears soak through my shirt and realizing how differently that phone call could have gone, mine start falling too.
She still has cancer.
Chemo is still coming.
We’re nowhere near done fighting.
But for the first time since they opened her up, the future doesn’t feel like it’s disappearing beneath our feet.
I press my lips against her hair and hold her tighter.
“We can do this.”
She nods against my chest.
And for the first time, I think maybe we really can.