The number blazes in bright font, so unreal that my brain tries to reject it. Sixty-seven thousand dollars. From strangers. For a boy they’ve never even met.
“That’s how much you've raised?” My whisper bellows out before I can stop it.
As I watch, the number ticks upward in real time. A five-dollar donation. Twenty more from someone named Patricia. Fifty from the Bruce family. Then an anonymous five-hundred-dollar gift makes the total jump again.
My throat tightens. I scroll through the comments section, each message hitting me somewhere beneath my ribs.
"This is the true spirit of the season."
"We're praying for you, Luke!"
"My son had a kidney transplant last year. Sending strength."
"Sanders, you're an inspiration!"
The laptop screen blurs as unexpected tears well up. I blink them back, embarrassed by the surge of emotion.
Woody's footsteps stop. From the corner of my eye, Isense him leaning over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his aftershave. My body reacts to it, a lump rises in my throat. His scent has always had that effect on me.
I don't look up, don't acknowledge how the smell of his aftershave triggers memories better left buried.
"It's incredible," I admit, keeping my voice steady.
"Yeah." His tone carries that surgical calm, but I hear that subtle hint of emotion he's choking back. "That's our boy who put this in motion."
The winter sunset paints faint pink streaks across the kitchen window. The golden light catches in the steam rising from the forgotten mug of coffee at my elbow. Outside, our small town is getting ready for Christmas, while our broken family tries to come together for a viral trend our nine-year-old put in motion.
That now-familiar tug between awe and unease shoots through me. The miracle of all this kindness threads with the terror of wondering if we can navigate all of this. Together.
What are we responsible for now? What happens when all these people, these strangers with their five dollars and their prayers and their hopes, expect us to fix everything for Luke?
My practical instinct kicks in, grounding me like it always does when emotions threaten to overwhelm.
"You're going to have to explain to me how GoFundMe works," I say, already shifting into problem-solving mode. "I'm sure Carly can use this now. Of course, she'll need to cover the work she'll miss if we go to New York."
The darkness has crept up on us while we've been staring at the screen. The only light in the kitchen now comes from my laptop's glow, casting ourfaces in an eerie blue. The wall clock ticks with exaggerated loudness in the quiet, marking seconds that sound like heartbeats.
"I'm not entirely clear on it, either. This was a first for me. I set it up for Sanders."
"So how does the money actually get to them?" I ask, scrolling through the donation page.
Woody shifts his weight, leaning against the counter in that casual way that somehow always looks deliberate, controlled.
"I know that I, as the organizer, get the funds. It's linked to my bank account. Nothing has been deposited yet, but I will look into it."
My brows knit together as I process this. "So it goes to you first?"
He nods. "And then I'll transfer it responsibly. We'll involve Carly before anything's moved. I'm sure we can have the bank wire it."
"Do you know how to contact her? I'd rather not communicate through our shared nine-year-olds and direct messaging apps."
"Yes, I have her number. I talked to her earlier today once I set up the GoFundMe."
I swallow the retort forming in my throat. He already contacted Carly once without me. The familiar feeling of not working together and being sidelined tightens my chest. It drives me crazy how he makes decisions about our son unilaterally.
From the living room, Sanders's animated voice carries as he talks to someone on his tablet. I'm sure he's updating his friends about New York. His excitement is a tangible force in our home, bright and warm against the late afternoon December chill.
"Do you have time to call Carly now?" I ask, pulling my phone closer. "It sounds like the folks at GMA calledher, too, based on Sanders's excitement. But the three of us should talk."
