CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Words We Never Say
I can’t breathe. The last twenty-four hours have been the hardest, most stressful of my life.
It started with a phone call in the middle of the night. Dad wasn’t doing well, so they asked us to come in. Brooks drove me while Jasper stayed behind to wake Mom if we needed to.
We arrived in a blur of dark back roads and worry that clogged my throat and nose and chest. Brooks kept my hand safely tucked in his.
The infection had spread, and Dad was hallucinating. I tried to talk to him but eventually, they sedated him to let his body rest while they pumped him full of more medicine.
Now, they’re saying he needs to be intubated. Tears blur my vision and scatter my thoughts.
Brooks left two hours ago, and I’m standing alone in the corner while they work on Dad, trying to stabilize him.
Everything is spinning out of control.
Machines shriek and nurses shout orders, but all of it fades beneath the pounding of my heart. The beeping, the rush of feet, the curtain being pulled, it all collapses into static. I can’t hear anything clearly. I can’t think. I can barely breathe.
And all I feel is regret.
Why didn’t I come back sooner?
Why did I keep putting off visits, keep telling myself there’d be more time?
Why did I stay so long in a place that never felt like home, when this—this man fighting to breathe—was home?
If something happens to him… if he doesn’t come out of this…
My knees threaten to buckle.
I grip the edge of the wall, forcing myself to stay upright, to stay here. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only this room, this noise, this fear clawing its way up my throat.
I should have come back.
I should have told him he mattered before now.
I stand just outside the tangle of bodies and machines, watching hands press to his chest, watching tubes get inserted and numbers flash across the screen like some cruel countdown.
My heart is hammering so loud it drowns out everything and everyone. I want to scream. To beg. To undo time.
"I’m here," I whisper, uselessly. "I’m here now."
But what if I’m too late?
And if this is goodbye, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The monitor blares. A nurse yells for a crash cart. A second voice calls for a doctor. Hands move fast. A curtain is half drawn, but I can still see the shape of him—still, frail, slipping away.
And I’m frozen. Paralyzed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, needing to escape, to go somewhere—anywhere—he’s still alive.
And suddenly, I’m six years old again.
We’re at the county fair.
The sky is blue, sticky with heat and the smell of cotton candy and livestock. One moment, I’m holding his hand, and the next, I’m not.
I’m lost.
The crowd swells and swirls around me, towering strangers in sunhats and cowboy boots.
I can’t see Dad anywhere. I start to call his name, first with hope, then with rising panic.
The tears come fast and hot, blurring every shape and color.
I’m drowning in sound—laughter, music, the bark of a game vendor—but none of it is his voice.
Then suddenly, there he is.
He’s running toward me, arms out, face etched with worry. He scoops me up and holds me so tight I can barely breathe.
"I’ve got you, Ellie Girl," he says into my hair. "I’ve got you."
We were only apart for a few minutes. But to six-year-old me, it felt like hours. The panic, the helplessness, the sheer grief of being alone, it was overwhelming.
And now?
Now, it’s worse.
Because here in the hospital room, I’m lost all over again. Standing still while everything around me blurs. Nurses move fast, machines scream, people shout, but none of them are Dad. He’s slipping away, and I can’t reach him.
I close my eyes.
He’s going to find me.
He always finds me.
Everything is going to be okay.
Right?
But the air moves.
It’s small at first. Just a flicker in the corner of my vision, a sudden hush that moves through the room like everyone is holding the same breath. The kind of stillness that means something is about to change. The nurses glance toward the doorway, and even before I turn, I know.
I feel it. The way grief can recognize its own before words ever pass between us.
A breath catches in my throat. I open my eyes slowly, the world coming back in pieces—white walls, wires, the rhythmic beeping of a monitor that feels far too slow.
And then, I see her.
My mother.
She’s standing in the doorway, pale and rigid, her hands clenched at her sides like she doesn't know what to do with them. Her purse slips from her shoulder, landing with a soft thud at her feet. She doesn’t move to pick it up.
She just stares at Dad, at all the tubes and machines and the way his chest rises and falls, shallow and too still.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something I’ve never seen before.
Terror. Raw and unfiltered.
Not the kind she masks with avoidance. Not the kind she wraps in excuses or buries beneath forgetfulness. This is real. Cracked open. Broken. The kind of fear she can’t run from.
She doesn’t say anything. But her face falls and I see it. She’s wracked with grief, maybe a little guilt.
My mouth parts, but no words come out. I tried to tell you. You should have come sooner. But I say nothing. Just silence.
Because beneath all the resentment, beneath the years of emotional distance and confusion, I know exactly how she feels.
I’m scared, too.
She steps forward. Only one step. But it feels like a lifetime’s worth of courage.
"Is he…?" she starts, then shakes her head, her voice crumbling as nurses step aside to give her space. "Is he still...?"
"He’s here," I manage to say, my fingers trembling. "But he’s tired."
My mother walks to the side of the bed and gently places a hand over his.
"I didn’t know if I’d make it in time."
I swallow hard. "You did, Mom. You did."
My mother doesn’t sit.
She just stands there, her hand resting gently over his, her body trembling like she’s barely holding herself together. For years, she’s lived inside the same four walls, pacing the same floorboards, anchored by fears she’s never fully named.
And now she’s here.
In a hospital.
In public.
With people and noise and fluorescent lights and the sound of her husband fighting for breath.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
This moment isn’t about me.
It’s about her. It’s about them.
And then, like he always does, Brooks appears.
Quiet footsteps behind me. A brush of warmth as his fingers find mine and gently thread through them. I look down at our joined hands, and for a moment, everything inside me steadies.
I glance up at him, tears blurring the edges of my vision. His brows are drawn, his jaw tight, but when he looks at me, something eases. He doesn’t say anything either. He just squeezes my hand.
And somehow, it’s enough.
Mom finally sits, lowering herself into the chair beside the bed like it’s something sacred. Her hand never leaves his. Bodies move around her, making room for her bravery, for her pain.
"I made it," she whispers, mostly to herself. "I told myself I couldn’t… but I did."
Dad doesn’t stir. Doesn’t open his eyes. But his hand twitches slightly beneath hers.
And I swear—I swear—the tension softens. Like hope cracked open a window. Like love—real love, messy and overdue and stubborn—decided to stay a little while longer.
None of us speak. The room hums with quiet machines and the soft rhythm of his breathing, each sound impossibly fragile. I count the seconds between the beeps, afraid that stopping will make them stop, too.
Brooks stays behind me, a steady shadow at my back. His thumb traces slow circles over the back of my hand, an anchor in all this fluorescent light.
Mom’s shoulders shake once—barely—and I look away, giving her that small privacy grief demands.
For the first time, I understand that bravery isn’t loud. It’s this. Staying when it hurts.
Miraculously, Dad stabilizes. The entire room lets out a collective breath.
I exhale and motion to the door. Brooks leads the way into the hallway.
It’s quieter out here. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional shuffle of nurses moving down the corridor. The stillness should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t. It’s a reprieve. A pause.
Brooks doesn't let go of my hand.
Not right away.
He waits a beat. Then another. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll breathe first.
"I didn’t think she’d come," I say, the sound so small I barely recognize it.
He leans against the wall beside me, one arm crossed loosely over his chest, our hands still lightly touching. "Neither did I."
"How did you get her here?" I ask.
Brooks shrugs. "I told her she might not get another chance. That if I’d had even one more moment to say goodbye to my mom, my dad, or my grandma… I would’ve taken it. Because living with words you never said? That’s a kind of grief that never lets go."
My lungs burn. "I was angry for so long. At her. At everyone. But when she walked in just now…" I pause, swallowing hard. "I wasn’t angry. I was just… relieved. Grateful."
He nods, quiet for a moment. "Sometimes the people who’ve failed us the most still show up when it matters."
I glance over at him. "You always show up."
His eyes find mine. There’s no teasing in them now. No smirk. Just something unwavering. "You do, too."
"No, I ran." My voice wavers. "I ran away and now I’m terrified I’ll have to do this—say goodbye—without ever really coming back."
"You’re back now," he says softly. "That’s what counts."
I press my fingers to my temples. "I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this."
"You are," he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. "But you don’t have to be strong alone."
My gaze drops to the floor. "What if I’m not ready to lose him?"
Brooks gently tugs me toward him, and this time, his hand lifts—not to touch, not yet—but to hover near my arm. "Then you don’t. Not today. Not right now."
And somehow, those few words undo me more than all the chaos, all the uncertainty.
I step into his arms without asking, without pretending. His embrace is solid and unshakable, and I let myself cry. Not the quiet tears I usually reserve for late nights and locked bathrooms, but the aching, silent sobs of a daughter bracing for the unknown.
He holds me through all of it.
He doesn’t rush it.
And when I finally pull away, wiping at my eyes, he looks at me with so much care it hurts.
"Come on," he says gently. "Let’s get some air. Just for a minute."
I nod, and we start walking.
Together.
Always together.
The automatic doors sigh open, and warm night air folds around us, heavy with cut grass and rain still clinging to the asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn cuts through the dark—soft, low, and human.