Chapter 29
Twenty-nine
Luc
The road to the airport is quiet this early. The lake is a flat sheet of gray beside us, mist clinging to the surface.
My mother sits in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap, coat buttoned, scarf tucked neatly at her throat. She looks the same as she always does, but there’s an ease to her this morning that hasn’t always been there. Or maybe I’m just finally noticing it.
“You know,” she says, breaking the quiet, “I really liked Addie.”
I glance at her, and then back to the road. “You did?”
She smiles. “I did. Very much.”
Saturday night replays in flashes—the way Addie held herself, the way she listened more than she spoke, the way she didn’t try to impress my mother or disappear either. She’d just seemed like herself, present in that steady middle ground she occupies without apology.
“She’s strong,” my mother continues. “Not loud about it. But you can feel it.” She pauses. “She feels like someone who’s learned how to stand on her own.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “She has.”
My mother nods. “She’s good for you.”
The word good could mean a dozen different things, but for once, I don’t feel the need to interrogate. I just accept it.
The airport comes into view too soon, a low building with more windows than walls, just waking up for the day. I pull into the parking garage and put the car in park. Neither of us moves.
“I’m glad I came,” Mom says.
“Me too.”
She turns to face me, her expression gentle. “I won’t be gone long. Once the baby’s born, your father and I will come back.”
I blink. “Dad too?”
She laughs quietly. “Yes. He’s already pretending he’s not excited, which means he absolutely is.”
That image—my father trying to be casual about becoming a grandfather—does something to me. “That would be…nice,” I say, the word feeling insufficient but honest.
She studies me for a moment. “I’m proud of you, Luc.”
“For what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Pride has never been a casual thing in our family. It’s usually earned through milestones, achievements, visible success. This feels different.
“For the life you’re building,” she says. “And for the way you’re learning to let people into it.”
I swallow. I didn’t know she could see that. I didn’t know I was doing it well enough for it to be visible.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’ve missed you,” she adds quietly. Not the place. Not the house. Me.
“I’ve missed you too.”
We get out of the car and walk toward the terminal together.
The automatic doors open with a soft whoosh, warm air spilling out to meet us.
Inside, it’s already busy—travelers lined up at security, the low murmur of voices, the squeak of rolling suitcases.
Life moving forward whether we’re ready or not.
At the entrance to security, she stops. We linger, neither of us quite ready to make the break.
“One more thing,” she says. “I’m going to try to talk your father into spending summers here.”
I stare at her. “Here?”
She nods, eyes bright. “Why not? It’s beautiful. And closer to you.” Her smile turns playful. “We used to do it all the time. We’re allowed to change our minds at our age too.”
I consider that. Summers with my parents here. Barbecues. Long evenings by the lake. The possibility of something resembling continuity. It feels almost dangerous to want it.
“I’d like that,” I say carefully.
“I thought you might.”
She pulls me into a hug, pressing her cheek against my shoulder and holding me close. I breathe her in, the familiar scent of her perfume, and let myself feel the ache instead of bracing against it.
“Call me,” she says as she pulls back. “And tell Addie thank you again for Saturday night.”
“I will.”
She steps away, and then turns back once more. “I really do mean it, Luc. I’m proud of you.”
I wave and watch her walk toward security, her back straight, her stride unhurried.
When she disappears into the line, I stand there for another moment, and then turn and go back outside, the morning air colder now than when we arrived.
I slide into the driver’s seat, letting the sadness exist without trying to talk myself out of it.
She’ll be back. But the leaving still matters.
This is usually when I shake things off. When I tell myself it was a good visit, that I’ll see her soon, but that there’s work waiting and I should get on with it. I’m efficient that way. I move forward. I don’t linger.
Today, though, I let myself linger. The feeling in my chest isn’t sharp. It’s steady. It doesn’t need fixing. It just needs to be acknowledged.
I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my mom until she was sitting next to me again, talking about my life like she was part of it. I’ve made a life here. I have routines. I call this place home. But some part of me has still acted as if it might not last.
When she talked about coming back—with my dad, about spending summers here—it made the future feel more real. Less like a maybe.
I let out a slow breath. Addie comes to mind. The way she carried herself at dinner. She didn’t try to impress my mom. She didn’t pull away either. She just came, and she stayed. My mom noticed.
I start the car, pulling away from the airport. By the time I reach work, the heaviness has dissipated some. I know I can handle it.
The clinic’s already bustling when I step inside, even though the first appointments are still half an hour out. Phones are ringing behind the front desk. The printer is churning out our overnight reports. The faint scent of coffee drifts from somewhere down the hall.
I nod to the receptionist. “Good morning, Angie. How was your weekend?”
“I couldn’t wait to come back today,” she replies with a giant grin. “Work is a break from my kids. Whatever you do, don’t have more than two. When they outnumber you, they have a habit of taking over.”
Angie has five children. I don’t know how she does it. “How’s the schedule looking?”
“It looks like we had six of our patients in the emergency department this weekend, so I’ll be adding them to your schedule.”
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
I continue down the hall and drop my coat on the back of the chair in my office, logging in before I do anything else.
Lab results first. Cholesterol panels. Thyroid levels.
A flagged A1C that will need a conversation, not just a note.
I scan imaging reports next—an X-ray confirming what I already suspected, another that will buy someone peace of mind.
I clear prescription renewals from the pharmacy queue, approving the routine ones, pausing on the few that will need follow-up.
I work on instinct, getting myself up to speed. Review. Decide. Sign. Chart. Everything stays clean and contained, professional and orderly. No one sees anything different, which is the point. This is the part of my life I’ve always known how to hold steady.
It’s not until the schedule loads fully on my screen—names stacked neatly into the day ahead—that I finally slow down.
Addie’s next appointment with Dr. Carroll is marked on my calendar tomorrow afternoon, a neat block of time.
I start moving things around in my schedule to be sure it works—a meeting shifted with a pharmaceutical rep, adjusting a consult set up with my patient and a specialist. I’ll just make the intro and then head out.
She asked me to do this, I say silently.
I’m not inserting myself. I’m making room.
When I’m done, I lean back in my chair and study the result. The open hour looks different than the rest of the day. A deliberate choice. This isn’t about reassurance or control. I just want to be available, present. I want to know about our child’s progress too.
I open my phone and pull up our messages. My thumbs hover over the screen, the familiar hesitation creeping in. I type a sentence, and then delete it. I try again and erase that one too. I’m not here to negotiate or justify myself.
I take a breath and start over.
Me: I am available for your appointment tomorrow afternoon. Is that still what you’d like?
I read it once, and then again, checking for anything that sounds like an ask disguised as an argument. Then I send it.
With that, I set my phone face down on the desk and stand, letting the quiet stretch between now and whatever comes next. This is the part I can’t manage. It belongs to her. All I can do is wait.