So Evie made a choice.
She wouldn’t retreat. She wouldn’t overcorrect by becoming invisible or overly deferential. She wouldn’t apologize for competence or dull herself down to be palatable.
If Maggie Laurel had drawn a boundary, Evie would respect it.
But she would stay.
And she would be good.
Daisy Carter was awake when Evie slipped into the room later that morning, the light from the window catching the thin silver of her hair. Her daughter, Kara, sat hunched in the corner, scrolling furiously through her phone like the screen might offer a solution medicine hadn’t yet provided.
Evie moved quietly, checking vitals, adjusting the blanket.
“You came back,” Daisy said, voice raspy but clear.
Evie smiled softly. “I said I would.”
Daisy studied her with surprising sharpness. “You’re the honest one.”
Evie stilled.
“That’s what Kara says,” Daisy continued. “She says you don’t dodge.”
Kara looked up sharply. “Mom?—”
“It’s fine,” Daisy said. “I want her here.”
Evie pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat. “What do you want to know?”
Daisy didn’t hesitate. “How bad is it?”
Evie felt the weight of the question settle between them. This was the moment Maggie had warned her about—the edge where truth could either steady or shatter.
She chose her words carefully.
“We don’t know everything yet,” Evie said. “We know there’s an infection, and your body is working very hard to fight it. Some treatments will help. Some may not. What matters most is that we respect what you want.”
Daisy nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” Evie said immediately.
Kara sighed but Daisy’s gaze stayed steady.
“Good,” Daisy murmured. “Then tell me what hope looks like now.”
Evie swallowed.
“Hope,” she said, “looks like comfort. It looks like honesty. It looks like you having a say in what happens next.”
Daisy smiled faintly. “I like that kind of hope.”
Something in Evie’s chest loosened.
Afterward, as Evie stepped into the hallway, Maggie Laurel was waiting.
Not looming. Not interrupting.
Waiting.
