I rub at my eyes, the words on the screen blurring after a day that already feels too long. The house is so still it almost hums, the only sound the low whir of the furnace kicking on.
I should be packing, maybe even sleeping, but instead I’m combing through lab results and dictation notes, double-checking every flag I marked for Peck. If I don’t, I’ll lie awake wondering what I missed.
The next morning,the airport hums with the usual mix of chaos and routine. Rolling suitcases rattle over the hard floor, children whine, while the steady voice of the gate agent announces departures.
I spot Lane and Sanders near the entrance, her handresting on his shoulder as he bounces on the balls of his feet, too excited to stand still.
“Hey,” I say as I approach, dragging my carry-on behind me. “How’d it go this morning?”
Lane glances up, her expression softening when she sees me. “We’re checked in. Just waiting on you.”
Sanders beams, his backpack bulging like he’s packed his whole room. “Dad! They gave me wings!” He holds up the cheap plastic pin with all the pride of a Medal of Honor.
I chuckle and ruffle his hair. “That’s a big deal, Squirt.”
I turn to Lane, lowering my voice. “What about Carly and the kids? Are they with you?”
“They’re coming on the next flight.” She shifts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “Carly had to work a few hours this morning. Tie up loose ends so her boss would sign off on the time off.”
I frown. “The fundraiser should’ve covered her unpaid leave by now.”
“We just told her last night. I think she already told her manager she would be there and planned their flights accordingly,” Lane says flatly, adjusting Sanders’s sleeve. “You know those funds don’t just show up overnight. She still has rent, groceries, utilities—real bills.”
Guilt pricks in my gut. I hadn't even considered that. “I’ll call the GoFundMe team today, make sure it gets pushed through. She shouldn’t be worrying about this right now.”
Lane nods, not meeting my eyes. “That would be helpful.”
The security line inches forward. Sanders chatters about the city, about the tree and the rink and the toy stores he’s mapped out in his head. Hisenthusiasm is contagious, pulling smiles out of both of us despite the undercurrent between us.
At the gate, we settle into a row of chairs. Lane digs through her tote for snacks, handing Sanders a granola bar before he even asks. I watch the ease of it, how she anticipates him, how seamlessly she still fills the role I so often left her to carry alone.
Sanders leans against my arm, chewing noisily. “Do you think Luke and Leigh will get wings too?”
“I bet they will,” I say, smoothing his hair.
Lane’s eyes meet mine briefly across Sanders’s head. For a flicker of a second, it feels like we’ve done this before, a thousand times, even though we haven’t. Not as a family. Not like this.
“Flight 237 to New York now boarding,” the gate agent calls over the speaker.
Sanders shoots up, crumbs falling to the floor. “That’s us!”
We gather our bags. Lane falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush as we join the line.
The flight is uneventful. Sanders jabbers until exhaustion finally drags him under, his head lolling against Lane’s shoulder somewhere over Virginia.
I stare out the window into the clouds, pretending not to notice the way her hair brushes his forehead, the picture-perfect scene I used to be part of.
By the time we land at Laguardia, he’s recharged and bouncing like he’s had three espressos.
The cab ride is a blur of Christmas lights and skyscrapers. Sanders presses his nose to the glass, narrating every billboard like we’ve never seen advertisements before. Lane laughs a little too tightly, the sound of someone trying to stay present even while her mind ticks through logistics.
By the time we reach the Midtown hotel, my patienceis thin due to the crawl and horns of the traffic through town.
The lobby is all polished marble and towering poinsettias. A giant tree glows with white lights in the corner. Sanders darts ahead toward the fountain, tossing in a coin with a whispered wish.
At the desk, Lane slides her ID across to the receptionist, her tote slipping off her shoulder. “Let me get the reservation number. I know Tighe Benjamin, with Good Morning America, made them.”
The young man clicks at the keyboard. “Yes, we have you right here. A suite overlooking the south side.”
