Chapter 42 Spencer
FORTY-TWO
SPENCER
Two days later, Esme is discharged.
Despite my offer to fly them home, Rhea says she’d rather drive. “I just feel better with her strapped into her carseat,” she says. “Normal. Predictable.”
I rent a four-door sedan, something practical. My usual ride is a sleek, low-slung coupe with no business near a toddler, let alone a car seat.
Gina sends over a travel bag with everything she thinks a Esme might need for a two-hour ride: snacks, wipes, toys, backup toys, books, emergency books, and a teddy bear she grabs onto immediately and won’t let go.
Mostly, Rhea and I don’t talk.
There’s something sacred about this drive.
Our daughter—our daughter—is leaving the hospital not just alive but radiant.
Whole. Bubbly, babbling, making up songs in the backseat.
Every now and then I catch a word—“puppy,” “cookie,” “airpane”—but most of it is joyful nonsense, a language all her own.
Rhea knows exactly when to respond and when to let her ramble. She reads aloud from the front seat, holding the book just high enough so Esme can see the pictures. She points out cows, clouds, a yellow truck.
She makes it all look so easy.
But I know it’s not.
It’s constant. Physical. Mental. Emotional. And she never flinches. She’s so good at it—so natural—that I feel this strange ache in my chest.
Esme is vibrant and grounded and full of light. And that’s Rhea. That’s all her.
My genes might be in there, sure—but Rhea’s the one who’s shaped her. Who’s given her joy, and rhythm, and wonder.
And the realization leaves me in awe of this woman all over again.
When the sign says MAPLEWICK 12, I feel a quiet panic rise in my throat.
Just like I did that day flying back from Paris, I feel the end pressing in. We’ve been a family for nearly a week—sleep-deprived, fear-soaked, bound by emergency—but a family nonetheless. Fighting the same battle.
Winning it.
And now we’re just… returning to separate lives?
No. I can’t.
I know what I have to do. And I know I have to do it now. I reach across the console for her hand.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I’m so happy she’s going home.”
“Me too.” Her voice is tired, but full of peace. “Honestly, I still can’t believe it, or thank you enough.”
I nod. Then continue. “If I’m honest… I’m a little jealous I’m not.”
She glances at me, puzzled. “Not what?”
“Not going home. With the two of you.”
She squeezes my hand gently, a flicker of a smile on her lips. “Well, you’re more than welcome to stay. Just warning you—the place is a wreck. She was so sick that last day…”
“Rhea,” I say, tightening my grip just a little, “I want you to hear me out. Just for a minute. This might sound crazy—but just… let me say it.”
Her eyes are wary.
“About a month ago, I bought a property on the Cape. Intended as an investment. But it’s this gorgeous old summer house—almost a hundred years old. Right on the water, and it’s been updated with loads of modern-day amenities. Big windows. Sunlight everywhere. Huge porch.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re sounding like a real estate brochure.”
I laugh, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. My point is—what if we go there? All three of us. Just… go. Be. Rest. Heal. Make something new. Stay.”
Her smile fades, into something like confusion. But I keep going.
“Esme could have the beach, the sand, the open air. You could write, or nap, or do whatever you need to. I could come and go from the city. We could be together.”
I glance over and again and see it—clear as day. Her face is pale. Her fingers tighten around her seatbelt. She’s quiet. Too quiet.
“That’s…” she begins, her voice uncertain. “That’s a lot, Spencer. A lot to think about.”
I nod, trying to keep my heart from sinking.
“I know. But for once, you could just focus on Esme without being pulled in a dozen directions. Without worrying about work or logistics or daycare drop-off times. Just… space to breathe. For all of us.”
She turns to the window. The silence stretches. She finally speaks, just as I pull up in front of her house. But her voice is cool. Her words measured.
“I love being Esme’s mom, Spencer. But I’m more than that. I thought you understood that about me. My work isn’t just how I pay the bills—it’s part of how I stay whole. And I’m sorry, but I can’t—won’t—be the woman waiting in some beach house for you to return from the city.”
I’m totally caught off guard.
Stunned, actually.
And then she adds, “I don’t need rescuing, Spencer. I need to be treated like a partner, not a project.”