A tiny nod.
I queue upMatilda—the original, because she says the remake “doesn’t have the right magic”—and lower the volume so it doesn’t overwhelm her headache. The opening notes start to play softly through the room.
Only then do I sit on the edge of the couch by her head.
She reaches for me, her small hand finding mine. She pulls my hand to her cheek, pressing her fever-warm face against my palm.
“Thank you for coming and getting me.”
“Always, Peanut. Always.”
I text Jayne and let her know. She calls within seconds.
“Is she okay? Should I come home?”
“She’s fine.” I stroke Mikaela’s hair as shelies curled up on the couch. “WatchingMatilda. And no, you don’t have to come home.”
I hear the pride in my voice and instantly feel ridiculous. It felt damn good to tell my wife that I was fine taking care of my sick child.
“I’ll pick up Finn so you can stay with her,” she offers.
“That would be nice, baby,” I say, and the smugness drains right out of me.
Jayne’s done this exact thing a hundred times.
Without fanfare.
Without complaint.
Without ever expecting applause.
Without my help.
How did she manage it all?
Did she drag a sick kid into the car for pickup?
Did she scramble for a last-minute favor from Iris or another mom?
Did she just…make it work because she had no choice?
Fuck.
I am such an ass.
By the time the movie ends, Mikaela is fast asleep. My phone buzzes. Paul’s name blinks across the screen. I tiptoe to the kitchen so as not to wake her.
“Hey, man,” I answer quietly.
“How’s Mikaela? Claire mentioned you got a call from camp.”
I tell him that she’s sleeping.
“So…you free for a bit?” Paul asks hesitantly.
I glance into the living room. Mikaela is asleep, her curls stuck to the throw pillow.
Busy used to mean sprinting between ORs. Now it means monitoring a fever and replenishing my daughter’s water bottle.
