"Can you help his mom with that? I have a feeling she wouldn't be able to coordinate all of this."
I sound calmer than I feel. Inside, I'm a storm of questions about all of this.
Woody nods his head but doesn't speak. I can see his gears turning. This is where he shines.
He stands with his back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. I used to call it the surgeon's stance: shoulders square, chin slightly raised,the posture of someone accustomed to having the final word in any room. His hazel eyes narrow slightly, processing.
"They want us to fly there on Wednesday?" he asks.
I nod once, bracing myself. Here it comes.
Woody exhales, a slow, practiced sigh I've heard a thousand times before. "I'm scheduled for two surgeries on Wednesday, even though it's my clinic day, which is also full of appointments. And then I have six on Thursday. I'll have to see if I can move them."
The words land like a punch I should have seen coming. Work. It's always work. Seven years divorced, and nothing's changed. And he's the one lecturing me about making this happen for Sanders.
Oh, that's right. I can make it happen for Sanders while he keeps running his life.
My chest constricts, the familiar burn of disappointment rising like bile. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back the sharp retort forming on my tongue.
"DAD! MOM! Come look! Luke just texted me!" Sanders calls from the living room, his voice bright and unburdened, cutting through the tension like sunshine through storm clouds.
I gave him an iPad for his birthday, but it has to stay here. I'm not ready to have him buried in a device all day, every day. And this is precisely why.
We make our way to the living room, my steps heavy against the hardwood. Through the doorway, I catch sight of Sanders sprawled on the gray area rug. The faint melody of "Jingle Bell Rock" drifts from his tablet.
"Did you hear? We're going to New York!" His face glows with excitement as he scrolls. "I have to figure out what I'm going to wear! I might need some new Jordans so I look fire on TV."
I manage a weak smile, but my throat is thick, like I'mtrying to swallow around a stone. "One thing at a time, sweetheart."
Woody stands behind me, silent but watchful. I can almost hear his anxiety about traveling. It's always his schedules, patient lists, and operating room slots that take precedence over everything else. The mental calculations of a surgeon's life, the very algebra that dissolved our marriage.
I force myself not to look at him.
"Luke says his mom is crying happy tears," Sanders continues, oblivious to the tension humming between us adults. "He's never been to New York either! Do you think we'll see snow? Can we go ice skating at Rockefeller Center? Will there be a big Christmas tree like in the movies?"
Each question lands like a tiny dart. How do I tell him his dad might not be there? How do I balance being realistic with keeping his dream intact?
"Maybe we could see the toy store from Home Alone 2!" Sanders rolls onto his back, his tablet still clutched to his chest like a precious artifact.
My heart twists under the weight of conflicting feelings: love for my son, resentment toward Woody, guilt for even thinking about disappointing Sanders. The familiar cycle churns inside me: hope, disappointment, anger, resignation.
"I need to make some calls," Woody murmurs, his voice low enough that Sanders won't hear.
I nod without meeting his eyes. "Of course you do."
The words come out sharper than I intended, brittle as ice. Behind me, Woody stiffens. I feel rather than see his reaction. I know all the tells: the slight straightening of his spine, the subtle shift of weight from one foot to another.
It's not like my disappointmentmatters anyway.
I move to the kitchen table, flip open my laptop, needing something to focus on other than the anxiety about all of this pulsing through me. The screen glows, but my eyes blur past it.
From the living room, Sanders’s voice bubbles with pure joy, painting pictures of Times Square and snow and Christmas lights. The sound both fills and empties me.
Then his sneakers squeak on the hardwood. He barrels in, face alight, his iPad clutched in both hands. “Mom! Look! Look at this. Look how much money we've raised for Luke!”
He shoves the screen toward me. My breath catches.
$67,382.
