"Yes, this is his mother," she says, her voice dropping an octave. Her eyes dart to mine, wide and disbelieving. "Sanders Beamer's mother, yes."
A chill skates down my spine that has nothing to do with the December air.
Lane adjusts her stance, her knuckles whitening as she squeezes tighter to her phone. "Good Morning America?" she repeats, the words hanging between us like smoke.
The voice on the other end grows louder, enthusiastic enough that I can make out fragments even standing outside—"heartwarming story"... "tremendous response"... "perfect for our holiday segment."
Lane's hand moves to her temple, massaging small circles as if warding off a migraine. Her gaze locks with mine, a silent SOS I haven't received in years.
The air leaves my lungs in an instant. National television. Millions of viewers. Sanders' face broadcast across America.
"We'll... we'll have to call you back. I've got to discussthis with Sanders' father," Lane stammers, then ends the call.
The silence that follows is physical, pressing against my eardrums. The world continues its ordinary rhythm while ours tilts on its axis.
Lane stares at her phone like it might bite. "Good Morning America," she whispers again, disbelief coating each syllable.
My pulse hammers against my throat. Pride and terror twist together in my chest. The video's reached New York. Network television. There's no putting this genie back in its bottle.
"We definitely need to talk. Let's go back to my house." Lane's whisper barely carries through the air.
I open my mouth, but no wisdom comes. For once, I don't have a confident diagnosis or treatment plan. The only certainty is that whatever our son started has taken on a life of its own.
FIVE
Lane
I push open the kitchen door, and the scent of the pine Christmas tree and leftover coffee hangs in the air.
Sanders barrels past me, but Woody lingers, and the thought of him sitting at my breakfast table, my one safe place, rattles me more than I want to admit.
He hasn't set foot in this house since our divorce.
The phone is radioactive in my hand. It's more like a live grenade than a piece of plastic and glass and microchips. Since the Good Morning America call fifteen minutes ago, I’ve let three more calls roll to voicemail.
Five messages wait, untouched.
The gray afternoon light spills through the wall of windows, highlighting every forgotten crumb on the counter, every fingerprint on the stainless steel fridge.
I wonder if he'll think I don't keep a tidy home.
Woody steps in behind me, his presence filling the space in that infuriating way it always has. The air between us still vibrates with whatever just happened in that parking lot—panic, frustration, and our go-to bickering that is there no matter what we are dealing with.
I place my phone on the island countertop like it might explode if I move too quickly. I don't have the energy to check the voicemails. A deep breath fills my lungs, but doesn't quite reach the tight knot behind my sternum.
"Mom! Dad! Am I going to get to talk about Luke's GoFundMe on TV? Actually?" Sanders barrels past us both, backpack still swinging from one shoulder, already ten steps ahead of our adult hesitation. "Bruh, wait till I tell my friends!"
He radiates joy, overflowing with pride. I should feel it too, but what rises in me is a hard, sinking weight.
The words leave my mouth with mechanical precision. "They want to fly all three of us to New York. Good Morning America. Everything is covered—flights, hotel, car service."
I realize I'm talking like I'm reading a grocery list, not describing a national television appearance.
"The phone call at Target?"
"Yes. They want to film it live with Sanders and Luke. Robin Roberts. Do you think Luke is healthy enough to fly?"
“If he’s stable, yes. But dialysis is non-negotiable. They’d have to arrange for him to get treatment in New York at a hospital or clinic. It’s doable, but it’s not like packing an overnight bag.”
