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 thebook 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 saysMAPLEWICK 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.
