I would also love a recommendation for a therapist for her to see and evaluate whether she should be seeing one regularly. She called me “mommy” tonight, and it’s possible the fever was talking, but I want to know whether I should correct it.
Claudia:
Don’t correct her. To her mom is a role not a title, you’re filling that in a way she’s never known but very likely has dreamt of. If this wasn’t going to be a permanent situation, I would advise a gentle correction, but in this case, I wouldn’t. How did it feel?
Me:
Amazing
Claudia:
I can not wait until Savannah says mommy for the first time.
Me:
Again, thank you.
Claudia:
Okay, last thing, fevers typically run a few days; three is Savannah’s norm. That third is usually the worst day. Breathe, Mom. You’re doing well. Message if you need anything at all.
Me:
Thank you, Claudia. Truly.
I set the phone down and let myself sit with that for a moment. Fine. Functional. Not unraveling. All things I can work with.
From down the hall, voices drift in from the living room.
Hank’s voice, unmistakable even when he’s trying to be quieter than usual. Breanna’s laugh, low and easy. Anotherwoman’s voice layered in, smoother, more precise, a gorgeous accent and looks to match. Lucy said it right, she looks like a queen.
Anneliese.
I hadn’t planned on listening. It just… happens.
“…you cannot tell this story without admitting you almost cried,” Hank says.
“I do not cry,” Lenzin replies flatly.
“Oh, he’s cried,” Anneliese confirms, amused. “At seven, at twelve, at nineteen. Very inconvenient for him, of course. Feelings are pesky things.”
There’s a pause, then Lenzin’s dry, resigned sigh. “You are all traitors.”
I bite back a smile despite myself.
Anneliese continues, clearly enjoying the attention. “We’ve known each other since we were five. You don’t get to curate your image after that.”
“Five?” Breanna asks.
“Boarding school,” Anneliese says. “Family estates neighboring each other. It was inevitable.”
“Like… this whole situation?” Hank asks, tone deliberately innocent.
There’s a shift in the room. Not silence, but a tightening. I hold my breath without meaning to.
“Our parents,” Anneliese says lightly, “have always assumed we’ll be married by thirty.”
Hank chokes. “I told you Bernie, betrothed.”
