Lately, everything between us is like that—easy. I say, “Let’s do this,” and we do. He says he’ll handle something, and he does. Even Iris has nice things to say about Rhys, which I confess is fantastic to hear.
“Okay.” I point to the Excel sheet. “Mikaela’s at day camp from nine to three. Finn has soccer conditioning three days a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays—then his coach added scrimmages on alternating Tuesdays. Also, I enrolled him in an enrichment program. Oh, and both of them have dentist appointments the second week of July.”
Rhys blinks. “They do this every summer?”
“Every summer.”
He whistles low. “You’re like a one-woman logistics department.” He shakes his head, amused after he goes through my worksheet. “This is nuts. It’s like running an air-traffic control tower.”
I laugh, but there’s a flare of satisfaction, too.
He leans back against the counter, rubbing his neck. “No wonder you were exhausted all the time. And all of this is before dinner planning, laundry, and making sure no one’s melting down.”
“Yep.”
He glances at the screen again, then at me. I see regret swarm his beautiful blue eyes, which look more rested than they ever have. “You shouldn’t have had to do this alone,” he murmurs.
The man has apologized and made amends in a hundred different ways, and I don’t want him to continue carrying regret and guilt. The fact that he took a sabbatical isgroundbreaking. I still can’t believe it most days.
“Well, lucky for me, you’re home now,” I tease.
“Lucky for you?” He grins, pulling me into a hug. “Lucky for me, baby.”
We do that a lot, too.
Hugging. Kissing. Making love.
Without having to do everything, I’m not tired all the time. And with him at home and not working, only handling the house and the kids, he isn’t exhausted either.
Our life is better for it.
A part of me wonders how we’ll manage when he goes back to the hospital, but I push the thought away. I’m not borrowing trouble from tomorrow. I won’t start doubting my husband, who has done everything he can to show the kids and me how much we matter to him. He hasn’t said a word about sacrifice, hasn’t once hinted that staying home—juggling snack schedules instead of heart surgery—is driving him crazy.
So I choose to trust Rhys. To trust us. To believe we’ll find a way, and that we won’t slip back into the life we used to have.
Our new way of living means we have the bandwidth to do things as a family, not just on holidays, but also on weekends.
One Saturday morning at breakfast, Rhys tells us to make no plans for Sunday. That’s it—no hints, no details. Just, “Be ready by nine, wear sneakers.”
Finn’s suspicious. “Is this like one of those surprise dentist appointments?”
Rhys chuckles. “Do I look like a man who’d plan a dentist appointment on a Sunday?”
“Yes,” Mikaela and I say at the same time.
He puts a hand over his heart. “Ouch. No faith in your old man.”
But at nine sharp, we pile into the car, and twenty minutes later, I realize where we’re going.
Patapsco Valley State Park.
We haven’t been here since the kids were small enough to ride in backpacks.
Rhys drives with the windows down, letting in warm wind and birdsong. The sunlight flickers through the canopy of oak and sycamore, scattering shadows across the dashboard. The air smells like river stones, damp earth, and honeysuckle curling from the underbrush.
“We’re going for a hike?” Mikaela is excited.
“Really, Dad?” Finn groans.
