I was sawing through pre-game chicken when my phone lit up like a bomb countdown. Four texts from Serena, rapid-fire:
Don't panic. Finn had an episode at school. We're handling it. He's okay.
My chair screeched against linoleum. Someone's water glass tipped. I was already calculating charter flight costs when my phone started vibrating—video call incoming.
"Wilder, what the—"
I walked out of the meal room, didn't even look back. The team could fine me later.
Finn's face filled my screen, nebulizer mask fogging with each breath. But his lips were pink, not blue. His eyes tracked normally. Serena's hand rested on his chest—countingrespirations, I knew, though she made it look like casual comfort.
"Hey, Dad." His voice came muffled through the mask, slight wheeze threading through it like a familiar enemy. "I'm okay."
"Tell me everything." My voice came out sharp enough to cut glass.
Serena shifted the phone, and I caught more of the scene—our living room, the emergency inhaler on the coffee table, the pulse oximeter clipped to Finn's finger showing 96%. Good. Safe. But my heart hadn't gotten the memo.
"Surprise PE session," she said, her teacher-voice cutting through my panic. "They had indoor relay races. No warm-up, straight to sprinting."
"Where was his inhaler?"
"In his backpack, but the substitute didn't know—" She stopped, reset. "Finn recognized the early signs. Told the teacher immediately. Used his rescue inhaler within thirty seconds of symptom onset." Pride colored her voice. "He advocated for himself perfectly."
The knot in my chest loosened a fraction. I had drilled that into him since diagnosis—speak up, don't wait, never be embarrassed about needing help.
"His peak flow?"
"Seventy percent initially. Back up to eighty-five now. Breathing treatment every four hours tonight, monitoring through the night." She rattled off the statistics like she'd been managing his asthma for years, not weeks. "Dr. Lisa stopped by with her stethoscope—lungs are clear, no secondary wheeze."
"I'm coming home—"
"No."
The word cracked like a whip. Finn's eyes went wide above his mask.
"Bradley Wilder, you are not flying home." Serena's face filled the screen, teacher-mode fully activated. "We are fine. Your team needs you. Finn needs you to play tonight. Don't you dare make his episode the reason you miss your comeback."
"But—"
She turned the phone to Finn. "Tell your dad what you told me in the car."
Finn pulled the mask down slightly. "Score a hat trick, Dad. Like you promised." He took a careful breath. "Mom would've wanted you to play."
The casual mention of Sarah alongside Serena's presence should have felt wrong. Instead, it felt like acknowledgment—that love wasn't replacement but expansion. That Finn could hold both truths simultaneously.
"Miss Serena takes care of me good," Finn added, mask back in place. "Like Mom did. But different. Both ways are good."
"Fifteen minutes left on this treatment," Serena said softly, camera back on her face. "Then we're going to build a blanket fort and watch your game. Calgary won't know what hit them."
"Serena—"
"Go eat your terrible pre-game meal. Do your weird superstitious tape job. Score some goals. We'll be here when you get home." She paused, something shifting in her expression. "We're not going anywhere, Brad. Either of us."
The double meaning wasn't lost on me.
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart," she said, and Finn's hand appeared in frame, pinky extended for a pinky promise with the phone.
