Chapter 38
Ethan
In the driveway, Dad was helping Mom toward the car when Claire pulled up.
I had my hand on the car door, but my breathing was off, too fast and shallow. I couldn’t seem to pull enough air in. My chest tightened, vision narrowing at the edges.
Losing Matt replayed in flashes, mom’s voice, unanswered calls, and suddenly I wasn’t just scared for Mom.
I was terrified.
Claire jogged toward us, eyes taking in everything in a single sweep.
“Is she okay?” she asked Dad, then looked at me and stopped mid-step.
I must’ve looked worse than I realized because her entire expression changed, softened, all at once.
“Ethan,” she said quietly, stepping closer, “look at me.”
I couldn’t. My eyes were darting everywhere, Mom’s hand gripping the doorframe, Dad adjusting her weight, the gravel under my feet.
“Hey,” Claire said again, firmer now, fingers brushing my arm. “You’re breathing too fast.”
“I can’t breathe,” I gasped.
“Relax and breathe in,” she instructed, voice steady. “Through your nose.”
I tried.
It caught halfway.
“Again,” she said. “Slow.”
I exhaled in a shaky rush.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now out.”
It took several tries before my lungs cooperated.
And then, suddenly.
she stepped forward and pulled me into a quick, tight hug.
I froze.
Not because I didn’t want it. but because I wanted her too much.
“Emma is okay,” she whispered. “She’s in pain, but she’s okay. You’re not losing anyone today.”
Something in my chest eased, just a small click, like a lock shifting.
I didn’t hug her back, not fully.
But I leaned into the steadiness she offered for just a second.
Then she pulled back, eyes scanning my face. “Can you drive now?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Go,” she said gently. “I’ve got Lily.”
I managed a shaky “Thank you,” before focusing on Mom again.
The whole thing lasted barely two minutes. But it stayed with me the entire drive to the hospital.
◆◆◆
Mom’s foot was broken. Clean break, cast set, orders to keep off it for weeks. Dad stayed with her overnight. I brought Lily home and did my best.
My best, it turned out, wasn’t always enough.
Lily was patient, but kids know when adults are overwhelmed. She clung to me more, asked more questions, needed more reassurance than I knew how to give.
The first evening alone with her, I burned pasta so badly the smoke alarm chirped once in warning.
She looked at the pot, then at me, and said very gently, “Maybe Claire can help?”
Which was exactly when Claire let herself in through the back door like she’d been doing for years.
She looked around, took in the chaos, the pot, my face, Lily’s worried expression and didn’t judge any of it.
“I’ll cook,” she said simply.
And that was that.
◆◆◆
The new routine took some getting used to.
She came every day after work, helped Lily with homework. She insisted on cooking actual meals. She messaged me to remind about meds and ice packs and bedtime schedules. She bathed Lily without making it feel like a big deal.
Not once did she make me feel incompetent.
She just… helped.
And watching her with Lily, it did something to me I wasn’t ready for.
The gentleness and patience.
The familiarity.
Like a piece of our old life stepping carefully back into mine.
One night, Lily tugged on her sleeve. “Stay for stories?”
Claire looked hesitant, glancing at me. “Only if your uncle wants me to.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. Stay.”
We all squeezed onto Lily’s tiny bed on her insistence, Claire on one side, me on the other, Lily curled between us like a little anchor binding us.
I opened a book, but Lily asked me to “tell one of your made-up ones.”
So, I did.
Some nonsense about a dragon who couldn’t sneeze fire unless someone tickled him behind the ears. Lily giggled into Claire’s side, and Claire tried, and failed not to smile.
And I felt a shift.
A warmth in the room that wasn’t coming from the bedside lamp.
When I risked a glance at Claire, I’m surprised, she wasn’t looking at Lily.
She was watching me.
Not with bitterness or anger. Just… surprised. Maybe even a little unsure.
Like she was seeing a version of me she didn’t expect.