Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
L andyn
She’s napping, finally. I’m curled up in the chair by the window, watching my mom’s chest slowly rise and fall as she sleeps in the hospital bed.
The journal Ford gave me is balanced on my knees, pen hovering over the page as I try to write down my thoughts.
But the words don’t come easily. They haven’t since I saw the wrecked look on his face.
Still, I start.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like if I’d stayed.
If I’d told him. If we’d figured it out together instead of me figuring it out alone, terrified, sitting in a bathroom with a plastic stick with two pink lines and no plan.
Would he have stepped up? Would he have run?
Would I have still lost him anyways? I used to believe I was doing the right thing.
That not telling him protected everyone—especially her. But now? Now I’m not so sure.
I stop, breathe, then keep going.
I wish I could go back. Not to change what happened, but to let myself trust him with the truth.
I told myself I was protecting him. That knowing about Poppy would change his life in a way he didn’t want.
That it would tie him to something he hadn’t chosen.
That I was saving both of us. But I think the truth is simpler than that… I was afraid.
I press the pen harder than I should, dotting the page with ink. My hand trembles as I write the next line.
And now that he knows, I keep wondering if we’ve reached the end or if this is just the beginning.
My mom stirs in her bed, murmuring something unintelligible, and I glance over to find her eyes fluttering open. I close the journal gently, smoothing my hand over the cover.
“Hey,” I say softly, standing and crossing the small room to her.
She offers a tired smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”
I help her sit up a little, adjusting the pillows behind her as she reaches for the small tray beside her.
The hospital food is…well, it’s hospital food, but she eats slowly.
She smiles at me, like she’s trying to convince me she’s fine, but I can see it.
The dark circles under her eyes. The faint tremor in her hand as she lifts the fork.
The effort it takes just to stay upright.
“I’m fine, Landyn,” she says gently, not even looking up.
“You always say that, even when you aren’t fine,” I reply, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“And you always say you’re okay when I know you’re breaking.”
I blink hard, looking down at my hands.
“You don’t seem like yourself. What’s going on? ”
I sigh. “A lot has happened this week.”
Her hand covers mine, cool and fragile. “He came.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He came.”
She nods, understanding. “That man’s heart has always been yours, Landyn. Even when you pretended otherwise.”
Before I can respond, a gentle knock sounds at the door, and the handle turns. It’s the doctor, clipboard in hand, a nurse shadowing him. He smiles warmly, but it’s tight. Measured. My stomach twists.
“Hi Carolyn,” he says, glancing toward my mom. “How are we feeling today?”
“I’ve had better days,” she replies with a small laugh.
The doctor smiles warmly, then looks at me. “Hi Landyn, is your father around?”
I nod, my hands folding tightly in front of me. “He just stepped out for a walk. Should be back soon.”
“Okay,” he says. “We do have the test results.”
My heart stops. My breath lodges in my throat. My mom reaches for my hand without looking away from the doctor.
He glances at the nurse, then back at us. “Would you like me to wait until your husband returns?”
“No,” she says firmly, her voice surprisingly steady. “We’ve waited long enough.”
But all I can think is…I’m not ready.
And in the silence that stretches out between us, the weight of every worst-case scenario presses down on my shoulders.
The wind lifts the edges of my coat as I wait on the sidewalk outside Poppy’s school, the sky low and gray. It’s the kind of day where the world feels quieter than usual. My phone is in my hands, not because I’m expecting him to call, but because in a strange sort of way I’m willing him to.
He hasn’t.
I haven’t heard from Ford since we talked at the hospital. Not a text. Not a phone call. Nothing. It’s not like I’m surprised. Four days ago, I dropped a bomb on him. A 6-year-old secret I never should’ve kept.
And now I have to live in the silence that follows.
I shift on my feet, trying to focus on something else. Anything else. My mom. The diagnosis that finally came. Myxedema coma.
The words still echo in my head. The doctor had said she was lucky. A lot of people don’t catch it in time. Thankfully my dad brought her to the hospital when he did.
And now she’s stable. She’s still tired but feeling better.
Every day, she’s a little more like the woman I’ve known my entire life.
The doctor told us her thyroid had stopped working almost entirely, slowing her body until it nearly stopped altogether.
That’s why she was always cold, why her hands trembled, why her hair thinned and her eyes dulled.
She was disappearing right in front of us, and the guilt of knowing this wraps around me like a vice.
My mother was so good at brushing off her symptoms that it took me almost a year before I moved back home to be closer to my parents. Thankfully, she’s going to be okay.
“Mom!”
Poppy runs toward me, her purple backpack bouncing, a wild curl coming loose from her braid. She crashes into my legs, arms wrapping tightly around my waist.
“Hi, baby,” I say, sinking down to kiss her head. She smells like finger paint and cinnamon and for a second, I let myself close my eyes and breathe her in .
She peers up at me as we walk toward the car, her hand curled tightly around mine. “Can we stop for a donut on the way home?” she asks, her voice hopeful.
“Only if you tell me what you painted today,” I say, opening the back door for her.
“A jellyfish,” she grins, climbing into her booster seat. “With glitter.”
“Of course it had glitter.” I buckle her in, brushing a curl off her cheek. “You’d add glitter to your cereal if you could.”
She giggles as I close the door and round the car. I slide into the driver’s seat and she’s still talking, midway through a story now about someone crying underneath the parachute in the gym.
“But Mama, I like being under the parachute because I pretend I’m living in a rainbow,” she tells me. “But it’s okay, because I helped her to feel better.”
“You’re such a good friend, Poppyseed,” I say, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. I’m about to shift the car into gear when my phone buzzes from the console next to me. I pick it up and a single message lights up the screen.
Ford: We need to talk. I want to see her.
My breath catches. I double check the message, like maybe I misread it. But it’s there. He texted.
My fingers hover over the screen for a moment before I start to type.
Me: Of course. Anytime. Just say when.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then set the phone down. My hands wrap around the steering wheel, and I glance at Poppy, humming softly to herself, staring out the window, lost in a world of glitter jellyfish and rainbow houses.
By the time we pull into High Tide Donuts a few minutes later, there’s another text from Ford.
Ford: We need to talk first about how we do this.11 a.m. at the Cedar Bluff Trail lookout tomorrow.