"What if—"
"No what-ifs." He stood, coming around the table to kneel beside my chair, uncaring of the other diners watching. "I know you're scared. I'm terrified every single day. But Serena, you're already Finn's mother in every way that matters."
I touched his face, feeling the slight roughness of his jaw, the warmth of his skin. "The custody stuff is resolved. You don't need me for appearances anymore."
"I never needed you for appearances." His hand covered mine. "I need you because Finn lights up when you walk in. Because you know to make him laugh during breathing treatments. Because you've turned our house into a home instead of a medical facility with beds."
His phone rang sharply. The color drained from his face as he answered.
"Where?" A pause. "How bad?" Another pause. "We're coming."
He was already standing, throwing cash on the table. "Finn's at Wrightwood General. Respiratory distress. Theo couldn't—we have to go."
We drove in tense silence, Brad's knuckles white on the steering wheel while I called ahead to ensure they had Finn's preferred medications ready. The fear was different now—not the panic of those first emergencies, but the deeper terror of having so much to lose.
At the hospital, we worked in perfect synchronization. I advocated for specific treatments while Brad provided emotional support, our partnership seamless under pressure. When the doctor mentioned a new treatment protocol, I rattled off questions about side effects and interactions that made Brad squeeze my hand with grateful pride.
Four hours later—after two breathing treatments and one heated argument with an intern who wanted to admit Finn overnight—Finn was stable, sleeping peacefully with his dinosaur stuffed animal clutched to his chest.
Brad and I flanked his bed like gargoyles, our hands bridged over Finn's blanket, fingers interlaced so tight they'd gone numb.
"I hate this," Brad whispered, not looking at me. "Hate that his childhood has a soundtrack of nebulizers. Hate that he knows which nurses work Tuesday nights. Hate that 'normal' means counting good breathing days."
"I know." I traced circles on his palm, feeling the calluses from hockey, the new ones from gripping hospital bed rails. "But he also knows everyAvalanchestatistic since 1979. And makessound effects for his breakfast foods. And asked yesterday if butterflies remember being caterpillars."
"I can't lose him," he admitted. "I can't lose either of you. So move in with us. Be his mom."
Looking at them—my boys, I realized with stunning clarity—I made my choice. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll call the property manager tomorrow. Give notice on the cabin."
Brad's smile could have powered the hospital. "Really?"
"Really." I leaned across Finn's sleeping form to kiss him, soft and sure. "I'm already home anyway."
That weekend,Operation Serena MovesIn became a town event. Maria directed traffic while Theo carried boxes. Mrs. Henderson from three houses down appeared with lasagna. Even Finn's hockey team showed up, tiny volunteers who mostly got in the way but made Finn glow with importance.
"Your books go here," Finn instructed, pointing to the shelves flanking Brad's hockey trophies. "So they can be friends with Dad's boring sports biographies."
"Strategic book placement," I agreed solemnly. "Very important."
My teaching supplies colonized the office. My grandmother's rocking chair claimed the corner where morning light hit best. My photos didn't replace Sarah's on the mantel—they joined them, past and present coexisting without competition.
"Now the most important part," Finn announced, producing a label maker with ceremony. He printed carefully, tongue poking out in concentration, then stuck the label to my coffee mug:SERENA'S - DO NOT TOUCH - THIS MEANS YOU DAD.
"Subtle," Brad laughed, but his eyes were wet.
That night, after Finn was asleep, Brad found me on the deck, staring at stars that didn't care about our small human reorganizations.
"Second thoughts?" he asked.
"Never. Just thinking about how Finn asked if butterflies remember being caterpillars."
"And?"
"I think they do," I said. "I think transformation doesn't erase what came before. It just adds wings."
