23. Locked Fault
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LOCKED FAULT
Claire
My phone buzzes catching my attention as it vibrates against the polished wood of my desk.
Sloane: Don’t ignore this.
Attached is a phone number.
What is this?
The response comes almost instantly.
Sloane: The doctor I told you about.
That narrows it down.
Three dots appear, pulsing on the screen. Then—
Sloane: The one I told you about regarding the perimenopause symptoms you’re having.
Then I recall what she’s referring to. Not that long ago, I made the mistake of mentioning that my sleep has become terrible. Then I admitted the hot flashes, the mood swings, and the brain fog. Apparently, she’s been paying more attention than I realize.
I’m fine.
Sloane: That’s what every woman says before she commits murder.
I laugh louder than I intend.
Sloane: Seriously, Claire, call her.
I don’t have time.
Sloane: You just finished the biggest project of your career. You have all the time. Just call.
My career of eighteen months?
Sloane: Yeah, because before that you were just wandering the countryside, gathering berries for elaborate hobbies.
I let the display go dark before waking it again, the number still waiting for me. I’m forty-five. My symptoms aren’t a surprise, just a reality I haven’t wanted to face. Before I talk myself out of it, I save the number and tap Call.
Three days later, I’m sitting in the waiting room.
The office is nothing like I expected. Instead of feeling clinical and sterile, it’s warm, and calming. A woman at the reception desk smiles as I check in. “First visit?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“Only because everyone has a similar look their first appointment,” she says with a bright smile.
That somehow makes me feel better. I settle into a chair and glance around. A few minutes later, a nurse calling my name appears in the doorway.
The questions come one after another. Sleep?
Erratic. Energy? Gone. Hot flashes? Yes.
With each answer, I feel a piece of a puzzle clicking into place, forming a picture I’ve refused to see.
I’ve been calling it ‘stress’ or ‘getting older,’ but laid out like this, it feels like something else entirely.
The physician has a kind expression. She listens without interruption while taking notes, her pen scratching against the paper.
When I finish, she looks at me, calm and serious. “You’re not imagining any of this, Claire.”
The words land, and a dam inside me breaks. She explains what’s happening inside my body, and for the first time, the chaos has a name. It’s relief. It’s being seen after years of feeling invisible, even to myself.
At one point, she asks how long I’ve been dealing with the symptoms.
“Longer than I realize.”
She nods knowingly, a slight rustle of her coat as she shifts. “Most women say that.”
By the end of the appointment, we’ve discussed several options: lifestyle changes, nutrition, exercise, sleep support, and hormonal treatment possibilities. Nothing feels overwhelming or scary. I feel an unexpected sense of hope, like a tiny sprout pushing through frozen earth.
As I walk to my car, I find myself turning it over: somewhere along the way, while taking care of everyone around me, I stopped paying attention to myself, stopped listening when my body was trying to tell me something. Those thoughts follow me on the drive home.
The click of the latch is loud when I open the front door causing Ethan to look up. He’s sitting on the couch, the soft glow of a laptop screen illuminating his face.
“How was your appointment?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“Good.”
“Good?”
I set down my bag with a soft thud. “Actually, fantastic.”
He closes the laptop, the lid clicking shut, and turns his full attention to me. “That’s better.”
“We’re going to start with some blood work,” I say, pausing on my way to the kitchen. “Just to get a baseline for my hormone levels.” I wait for his reaction, but he just nods.
I let out a breath and pivot toward the kitchen. “I’m making roasted chicken. Ellie needs help with her summer math challenge, if you don’t mind. You know math and I don’t get along.”
He chuckles. “I couldn’t possibly forget. I doubt you could have passed college math without my help.”
From the kitchen, I hear the murmur of their voices, the familiar cadence of Ethan explaining a problem. I’m about to put the chicken in the oven when an object hits the table—Ellie’s pencil, I’m guessing.
“Dad, you’re terrible at explaining this. You’re literally an architect!”
“That doesn’t mean I know math.”
“Dad.”
“Okay, fine. It means I know some math.”
As they debate, my gaze keeps drifting to Ethan’s briefcase, unzipped just an inch with something peeking out.
I tell myself I’m reaching for my water bottle, but my hand finds leather instead.
The sketchbook is sitting on top of blueprints and invoices.
It doesn’t appear to look like something he meant to keep hidden.
My thumb traces the worn cover after I pull it free.
The first page is a quick charcoal sketch of a woman’s face, her expression animated as if mid-sentence.
Ms. Whitmore. I turn the page. There she is again, laughing, her head thrown back.
And on the next, in profile, concentrating on something outside the frame.
One after another, it’s her. Some are from rehearsal, but others—look more intimate.
Another has her in a coffee shop or restaurant I don’t recognize.
The Ethan who drew me with this same focus is a ghost from our newlywed days. This is something else altogether.
I sit alone in the kitchen, the sketchbook closed on the table in front of me. My phone buzzes—a message from Sloane.
Sloane: How was the appointment?
It went well. I feel hopeful.
Sloane: I told you so.
I read her last message again, knowing I should respond. But I can’t look away from Ethan’s sketchbook. I let my phone go dark, its reflection vanishing from my eyes.
I spend the next day trying to shove the images from the sketchbook into a box in my mind, but they keep clawing their way back out.
By early afternoon, I’m pacing my office, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles whiten, nausea rolling through me in waves.
A hesitant knock pulls me from my thoughts.
I jump so hard I nearly knock over a plant.
Heidi stands in the doorway clutching something, and I have to school my face into something professional before I can speak.
“Do you have a few minutes?” she asks, and I notice her lower lip quivering. I gesture her inside. The door closes behind her with a soft click. She hands me a few folded pieces of paper, her fingers trembling.
“I found this in my mom’s belongings after she died. I haven’t thought about it much since that time, but I came across it recently when looking for something.”
It looks like a letter; the paper is old and brittle beneath my fingertips.
A dusty scent rises as I unfold the pages.
The handwriting is a shaky scrawl—it’s a confession I realize.
‘I wasn’t strong enough,’ one line reads, the ink slightly blurred.
‘I’m sorry for every promise that I broke.
’ I keep reading, the words a raw testament to a life of addiction and regret.
Then, on the last page, I see it. A man’s first name, written with a final, determined effort.
Conall
I look up at Heidi’s pale, drawn face and understand everything. It’s her biological father. Someone she’s never met. Someone her mother had intended to tell her about one day, but never had the chance to.
“I used to ask about him, but she would get upset, so I stopped,” she says.
This isn’t just about his name or the real possibility of finding him; it’s about identity, belonging, and understanding where she comes from. For years, half her story has been missing. Now that she’s older, she has the pieces of the puzzle and the chance to fill in the blanks.
“What if he doesn’t want me?”
I wish I had comforting words. He could welcome her, reject her, be dead, or be wonderful; the uncertainty is devastating. I know I need to let her make the decision on her own to search for him or not.
“Whatever you find, and whatever you decide, it doesn’t change who you are,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart.
“I’m not sure I can handle anything else right now, but if I change my mind, will you help me find him?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll do my best to help.”
After work, I drive Ellie and Heidi to the ranch. I’ve been dropping Heidi off in the evenings, but tonight Ellie wanted to go as well. This is also a good opportunity for me to check in with Lucy about her recent appointments.
The girls, armed with carrots and enough enthusiasm to fuel a small army, disappear toward the paddocks, their chatter drifting back on the wind.
A few months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d see Heidi ever allow herself to enjoy anything again.
Now she’s spending her free time cleaning horse stalls.
Progress, I muse, comes in unexpected forms.
I find Lucy and Sloane on the wide, wooden porch of the main house. Lucy is curled into one of the rocking chairs, a glass of iced tea condensation-beaded in her hand, while Sloane, somehow, has taken over the entire porch despite occupying only a single seat.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” Sloane says with a glint in her eye as I climb the creaky steps.
I settle into an empty chair beside Lucy. The wood is smooth and worn beneath my fingers. “How are you feeling?”
With a wry smile playing on her lips, she says, “Put the social worker away.”
“I am not being a social worker right now,” I say, leaning back.
“You are.”
I smile. “I’m asking how my favorite sister is doing.”
She gives me a suspicious look. “I’m your only sister.”
Sloane interjects, “Don’t let her fool you, she cried today because her favorite yogurt has been discontinued.”
“That was a reasonable reaction.”
“It was not.”
I glance between them, unable to prevent a small laugh. “Should I be concerned?”