By the third treatment, Finn's breathing had steadied enough for him to speak. "Dad? Can we go home?"
"Soon, buddy. The doctors just want to make sure you're all better."
"I'm sorry I scared you."
The words hit like a physical blow. "Hey, no. Don't ever apologize for this. This isn't your fault."
But whose fault was it? Mine, for letting him try hockey again? The universe's, for taking Sarah and leaving me to navigate this alone?
"Mr. Wilder?" A different voice. I looked up to find a young resident hovering in the doorway. "Dr. Lisa asked me to mention our pediatric anxiety support group. For parents dealing with chronic conditions—"
"We're fine," I said, the words automatic. "Thank you."
The resident retreated, and I caught Lisa's knowing look. She'd tried this before, gently suggesting that my hypervigilance might be affecting Finn. But hypervigilance kept him breathing. Hypervigilance meant catching attacks before they became emergencies.
Two hours later, we were cleared to leave. Finn dozed against my shoulder as I carried him through the now-quiet ER, past families just beginning their own medical nightmares. The SUV waited where I'd abandoned it, accumulating a light dusting of snow.
I buckled Finn into his booster seat with extra care, tucking his T-rex toy into his arms. His breathing was steady now, the treatments having done their job, but I still found myself counting his respirations as I drove.
Sixteen per minute. Normal.
The roads home were empty, Wrightwood sleeping peacefully while we made our too-familiar return journey. In the backseat, Finn stirred.
"Dad? Do you think Mom watches us?"
The question caught me off guard, my hands tightening on the wheel. "I... yeah, buddy. I think she does."
"Do you think she's sad when I have attacks?"
I had to pull over, my vision blurring too much to drive safely. On the shoulder of the road, with snow beginning to fall harder, I turned to face my son.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that Mom would be proud of how brave you are and of how bravely you face your asthma attacks.”
His voice came out small. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” I said simply. “She loves you. She’s proud of you.”
By the time we pulled into our driveway, dawn was breaking over the mountains, pink and gold painting the peaks. Our house stood like a modern fortress—all clean lines and large windows—but I knew what really mattered was invisible. The medical-grade air filtration system. The backup generators. The temperature and humidity controls. The arsenal of medications in every room.
I carried Finn inside, his weight nothing compared to the responsibility of keeping him safe. His room was exactly as we'd left it—nebulizer on the nightstand, peak flow meter on the dresser, emergency inhaler within arm's reach. I tucked him into bed, pulling his cosmic-print comforter up to his chin.
"Love you, Dad," he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.
"Love you too, Finn."
I stood in his doorway for a long moment, watching his chest rise and fall with blessed ease. Sarah's photo on his dresser caught the morning light, her smile frozen in a moment when our biggest worry was what to make for dinner.
"I'm trying," I whispered to her image. "I'm trying so hard."
But trying felt like running on a treadmill that kept speeding up. I retreated to my home gym, needing to channel the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
The weights were cold in my hands as I began my routine, my recovering knee protesting the first set of squats. Six weeks since the hit that tore my MCL. Six weeks of being sidelined while my team fought for a playoff spot. But hockey seemed insignificant compared to the battles happening in my own home.
I pushed through the pain, adding weight until my muscles screamed. Physical pain I could control, could measure and overcome. It was the other kind—the constant fear, the crushing weight of being Finn's only shield—that threatened to break me.
By the time I finished, sweat soaking through my shirt, the sun was fully up. I could hear Finn stirring upstairs, probably hungry for breakfast. Another day in our carefully controlled life was beginning.
I showered quickly, then started on Finn's favorite pancakes, shaping them like hockey pucks out of habit. He appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed for school, his inhaler tucked in his pocket.
