“Well, this is exciting,” I say, returning to the computer and clicking over to the discharge flowsheet in her chart. “I would schedule an appointment with an OB this week. If you need a referral, I can send one. I’ll send some nausea medicine to yourpharmacy as well.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She’s giddy as she encloses my hand in both of hers, shaking my arm in an aggressive form of gratitude.
“Good luck, Ms. Richards.” I smile and guide her down the hall.
I ride the high of her elation for the last few hours of my shift, thinking back to when Emma got pregnant with the boys or when we found out Josie was a girl. The love-struck emotions I have for my kids are hard to explain to people. Most days, like right now, I find myself just staring at the lock screen on my phone, a photo of Easton and Sawyer, wearing matchingBig Brot-shirts, announcing to the world our growing family. My home screen is a photo of Emma, holding a three-hour-old Josie, looking equal parts exhausted and euphoric. Emma’s hair is in a poor attempt at a braid she asked me to do mid-labor. Josie’s cheeks take up half the screen, and a small tear sits at the corner of Emma’s eye as she fawns down at her.
Once my charts are cleared for the morning, I check my phone again. Still nothing.
This is her first week back at work after maternity leave. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to talk about either. And instead of being a safe, open space to come to when she’s ready to talk about it, I let my exhaustion rear its ugly head. I gave her more reason to keep her emotions hidden from me.
Still no confirmation from Emma on receiving the flowers. My confidence in the rose-and-carnation assortment begins to dwindle down to a molecular level when my phone finally rings. But it’s not her.
“Dad?” I answer quickly. “Everything okay? Is it Mom?”
“Your mother is fine.” His deep voice settles the nerves in my chest. “I was calling to confirm you’re still coming next week.”
“Next week? Right, yes, we’lltry to be there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yeah. We’ll try.” I sigh, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. I’ve been avoiding my family for a few years now. Every time we visit, it’s just a reminder of how different things are. How changed we all are.
I try to make small talk, but it feels forced. “Everything else good, though?”
He chuckles on the other line. It’s a deep, aged version of the laugh I grew up hearing. “You sound busy.” I don’t; he just knows me too well. “I can call Emma.”
“No,” I snap. “Don’t bother her. There’s enough going on.”
There’s silence on the other end, and knowing my dad, I know he’s contemplating asking how things are going. For all forty years of my life, my father has had this innate ability to read the room even when he’s not in it. I always wondered if that was why he became a rancher. Reading people can be exhausting. Why not focus your energy on the animals and crops?
But he doesn’t ask.
If he did, what would I even say? I can’t lie; he’ll see right through it. I can’t tell the truth; he’d worry. But I tell my dad everything—or I used to anyway. But for the last four months, we’ve barely spoken. I’ve dodged his calls, sending “sorry I missed you” texts instead.
“How’s Mom?” I ask, willing anything to distract him away from my well-being.
“She’s Mom.” I can feel the weak smile on the other line, the smile that silently says, “I can’t tell you everything because it’s too painful to share, but it could be worse, so I’m going to focus on that.”
He clears his throat, not elaborating past the two-word answer. “Let me know when you’ll be in on Monday. We have the guest rooms ready for you. Oh, and your sisters will be here too.”
“All of them?” I grimace at the image of me, my wife, and my three children, all crammed into a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house barn with my sisters.Foursisters. And theirfamilies.
“Yep, not every day your mama turns seventy, now is it?” Gratitude gleams in his voice. Gratitude for another year with my mom here. “Give Emma and the kids a hug for me. We’ll see you soon.”
“See ya,” I mumble into the already disconnected line.
All four of my sisters. Together.
Me: You’re all coming?
I send the message to the group text labeled “Most Bestest Siblings Everrrrrr” much to my chagrin.
Shayna: STEVENNNNNNN <3 you know you want us there
Jay: It would be boring without us!
Tamara: I was told I would be disowned if I didn’t come
