The analogy I always come back to when Lane’s mad at me is infection. Once it takes hold, it spreads fast, and all I can do is focus on containment. No quick fixes, no easy cure. Just damage control and hoping the right treatment buys enough time to calm it down.
"Our son's face is all over the flipping internet. It's gotten even bigger since we talked." Her voice stays level, controlled, but edged with steel. "What is your plan now?"
My spine stiffens reflexively. The surgeon's defense mechanism to stand my ground under pressure kicks in.
"I don't have a plan. I didn't condone this. I just reacted. It happened fast." Even to my ears, it sounds weak.
Her brows lift, disbelief radiating from her like heat. "That's your defense? It just happened?"
She ticks off dangers on her fingers, each one landing like a precision cut. "Predators tracking him. Scammers using his face. People figuring out where he lives, where he goes to school." Her voice drops lower. "People knowing his schedule, Woody. His routines."
My gut twists. She's right. Of course she's right. But I can't forget the way Sanders lit up when that first donation came in, or how Luke's tired eyes widened when Sanders and Luke talked on FaceTime once we set everything up.
"Lane, people are helping.It's not all bad."
I glance toward her car, where Sanders presses his face against the window, watching us with the hypervigilance of a child of divorce who's learned to read adult tension like weather patterns.
"Mom, it's for Luke." His voice carries through the cracked window. "We're saving Christmas by saving Luke."
The innocence in his tone knocks the air from my lungs. I recognize the stubborn set of his jaw. It's mine, but the earnest belief behind it is all Lane. The part of her I first fell for, before residency and missed dinners and the slow death of promises, eroded it away.
Lane falters. I watch her mother-instinct war with her practical fears, her eyes flicking to Sanders' hopeful face. I stay silent.
This is our tried and true dynamic playing out. It's always her caution versus my belief that sometimes you have to take the leap, trust that everything will work out.
The silence stretches between us like surgical thread, ready to either close a wound or unravel completely.
She exhales sharply, a sound I still recognize from countless late-night arguments. Then she looks at me with the same wary suspicion she used to reserve for late-night pages from the hospital.
"I know he didn't set up a GoFundMe. Please tell me you did that and not some stranger on the internet."
It's a trap. I say no, she freaks out on me. I say yes, and I'm facilitating it.
I drag a hand down my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. The hospital's fluorescent lights never fully leave my skin.
"People were asking where to donate. I helped him set up a GoFundMe, yes. What would you have done? Would you have looked into his eyes and told him no, that wecan't help this boy, that we can create a way for all of these people who want to help to donate? Christ, Lane."
Lane's face transforms, her mouth parting slightly before hardening into a thin line. "Always the cool parent."
My hands rise defensively. "Why are you doing this, Lane? It's done. It's good. Let's help our son. It will fade in a few days, when people move on to the next trend. By then, hopefully Luke's family will have what they need to get him his transplant, and our son can feel good knowing he did something amazing to help a stranger."
"I just don't understand why you didn't call me first so we could do this together."
"I tried." I hold her gaze, refusing to look away. "Granted, I didn't right away. I didn't even understand how big this was at first. But I did try once I saw the insanity."
Her jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath her skin. "Well, I guess I don't have a choice at this point. But I'm serious, no more decisions regarding our son with this without talking to me. I don't care if it's Live 5 News or sending a text to Luke. I want to know everything."
"Whatever you say, Lane," I reply evenly.
We're talking over each other now, words colliding and overlapping. The familiar rhythm of an argument we've had a hundred times in different forms. Me charging ahead, certain I'm right. Her pulling back, protecting what matters.
"You never think about consequences?—"
"I think about nothing but consequences?—"
"—just like when you missed his kindergarten?—"
"Really? You're bringing that up now."
