Chapter 49
And just like that, I’m back at the Milwaukee airport, only this time with three bags instead of one.
My dad pulls up to the curb, elbow hooked over the door. He gives me a wave, then pops the trunk. By the time I’ve reached for one suitcase, he’s already beside me, lifting the other two.
“Holy cow! What do you have in here—bowling balls?” he asks, grinning under his Brewers cap and sunglasses.
A short laugh slips out of me, more nerves than humor. I’ve yet to tell my parents about my broken engagement, and I couldn’t dread it more.
After my luggage is loaded into the trunk, we climb into the car and look at one another.
“It’s been a long time,” he jokes.
I smile, then look out my window, thinking that for the first time in my adult life, I’m not following a careful script.
The next six months are set, but the contours of my future are fuzzy.
And yet, I feel lighter than I have since Mick told me about Erin’s accident—like something heavy has finally been set down.
—
About forty-five minutes later, my dad pulls into Joan’s driveway.
We haul the bags to the front porch, and I let us in with my key.
Nothing about the house has changed, but carrying my belongings inside makes it feel different.
Even Hank seems to register the change, sniffing at my bags as if taking inventory.
“Where do you want these?” my dad asks.
“Joan’s old room,” I tell him. “Follow me.”
He hoists the largest two bags, and I take the third, leading him up the stairs.
As we head back down, he asks if I’m hungry. “Mom can rustle something up.”
“I’m okay. I want to unpack a bit, but I’ll stop over before I have to meet the bus.”
“Sounds good,” he says, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder. “It’s great to have you home.”
“It’s good to be home,” I say.
—
After my dad leaves, I put my toiletries in the bathroom and hang a few things in the closet.
Then I go straighten Phoebe’s room, smoothing her comforter and closing her drawers.
I pull the dirty clothes out of her hamper and start a load of laundry.
When there’s nothing left to do, I head down to my parents’ house.
“She’s back!” my mom says as I step into the kitchen.
My dad is already pouring lemonade into three glasses.
A moment later, we’re at the table with sandwiches, chips, and potato salad, making easy conversation.
Finally, I make myself say it. “Dean and I broke up.”
My mom freezes, her hand hovering over her plate. “Oh, Billie.”
I keep my eyes down, willing myself not to cry.
“Because of this situation?” she asks.
“In part,” I say, even as I realize that it’s not part of the reason—it’s the whole of it. If Erin hadn’t died, Dean and I would still be planning a wedding together. We’d be as happy as we ever were.
The loss settles low inside me, tender and sore.
“He didn’t want you to take care of Phoebe?” my dad asks.
“It’s not that,” I say, instinctively protecting him. “He was on board with custody until he got a big promotion at work—and in the end, he couldn’t see himself living here.”
I know I’m leaving out a huge part of the story—but it’s too private to share, even with my parents.
“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” my dad says. “I know this isn’t how you pictured things going. But your mom and I are so proud of you for stepping up like this. I know Erin would be, too. When the doubt creeps in, please try to remember that.”
“I’ll try,” I say. “Thank you, Dad.”
—
Later that afternoon, Hank and I head down the street to meet Phoebe at the bus stop. When she spots me, she smiles and keeps walking—no sprint, no collision, just a quick hug and an easy certainty that I belong where I’m standing.
As we walk back toward the house, I clear my throat. “Hey, there’s something I want to tell you.”
Phoebe looks up at me.
“Dean and I decided not to get married.”
She keeps walking. “Is it because of me?”
“No. Absolutely not. This was between Dean and me. You didn’t cause it.”
“Are you sad?”
“Yes—but I’ll be okay.”
She thinks for a few seconds, then says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I say. “So glad.”
—
When we get home, Phoebe kicks off her shoes and plays with Hank while I make her a snack of apple slices and peanut butter.
When she finishes eating, we work on her science project—a poster comparing freshwater ecosystems with hand-drawn diagrams, photos, and captions explaining which plants and animals thrive in each environment.
Just after six, Mick’s truck pulls into the driveway.
He comes in quietly, explaining that he’s just here to pick up the rest of his things from the guest room, then disappears up the stairs.
When he returns, bag in hand, I can tell it’s a weighty moment for him.
Phoebe must feel it, too, because she clears her throat and says, “I’m going to miss you. And Cash.”
“We’ll still be around,” he says, patting her back. “You can’t get rid of us that easily.”
Phoebe smiles and returns to her project, as I follow Mick outside.
“I should tell you something,” I say, shifting my weight.
He nods, meeting my gaze.
“Dean and I broke off our engagement.”
“Shit, Billie,” he says. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But it was the right thing.”
He studies my face, then nods. “If you need anything, I’m a phone call away.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I pause. “Maybe you could come over for dinner one night this week?”
“I’d love to,” he says. “Just let me know when.”
—
The following days settle into a quiet rhythm: a hot breakfast, a walk to the bus stop, then back home to work remotely until it’s time to pick Phoebe up. In the evenings, I supervise her homework and make dinner. After we eat, we take Hank on a walk.
Occasionally, Mick joins us, and after Phoebe goes to bed, we discuss her care, finances, every detail imaginable—except the paternity test looming between us.
—
Before I know it, school is out for the summer—the most blissful time of year for a child and, I discover, a guardian.
Mornings mean cereal bowls at the kitchen table, followed by Phoebe lounging on the sofa, reading her library books or watching cheerful sitcoms. Afternoons are for errands and outings—the library, volunteering at the Humane Society, swimming at the lake.
In the evenings, after I clean up from dinner, I log in to my patient portal, answer emails, and schedule telehealth appointments.
Phoebe sits at the table with me, slogging through math worksheets and grumbling that decimals don’t belong in summer break. I assure her she’ll thank me come fall.
Every few days, Phoebe and I visit Joan.
We bring her flowers, cookies, and magazines.
Some days she knows us; other times she mistakes Phoebe for Erin or forgets us altogether.
But she always brightens when we walk into the room, wrapping her thin arms around her granddaughter like she’s holding on to something solid in the fog.
At least once a week, we go to my parents’ house for dinner. My dad grills brats on the patio while my mom and I sip wine and tell Phoebe stories about her mother. As dusk settles in, we watch bats skimming the rooflines, then—later still—fireflies blinking across the lawn.
Some nights, Phoebe and I hang out with Anna and Eliot, grabbing dinner at Seester’s or going to Brewers games.
Meanwhile, Mick remains consistent—watching Phoebe when I need time for myself and working through a punch list of to-dos around the house. From the kitchen window, I catch him in the yard, staring at the house with his hands on his hips, assessing a trouble spot only he can see.
One afternoon, the three of us run to the hardware store. Phoebe lingers in the aisle with the paint swatches, holding ocean blues and earthy greens against her palm.
“Gram’s front door could use a makeover,” she says.
“Good idea,” Mick says. “Pick one, and I’ll paint it.”
“How about this one?” she says, pointing to a light green swatch called Saybrook Sage.
“I love it,” I say, nodding.
Later, Hank and I sit on the front stoop, watching as Mick paints the door—forearms flexing, old T-shirt speckled with green, the back of his neck turning pink in the sun.
At one point, Phoebe brings him a glass of lemonade, telling him how good it looks. My heart lifts—more than it should for something as simple as a man with a paintbrush.
—
One night as I’m getting ready for bed, my phone lights up with Dean’s name. I freeze, letting it ring three times before I answer.
“Hi,” I say, my heart racing.
“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going in Wisconsin?”
“Pretty good,” I say, drifting into the bathroom. “We’re settling into a routine.”
“That’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”
“Thanks,” I say, putting my moisturizer away so I can have something to do with my hands. “How about you?”
“Everything’s the same here,” he says, city sounds in the background. “Almost everything.”
“How’s the new job?”
“Good. Great. But it’s a lot more work.”
“I bet,” I say, wondering if I still have the right to feel proud of him.
He asks about my job, and I tell him I can do a lot of work remotely. “When Phoebe goes back to school, I’ll be coming to the city once a month for procedures.”
“Maybe one of those trips, we can grab lunch.”
“That would be nice,” I say, knowing it probably won’t happen.
We chat for a few more minutes before he says, “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I miss hearing your voice,” he says.
“I miss yours, too.”
We say goodbye.
For a long moment, I stand at the sink, phone still in my hand, marveling at how quickly someone can turn into a stranger.