It was almost like the universe snapped its fingers and decided we didn’t get time to catch up to our own lives.
“Did you go to the hospital, Dad?”
“She dragged me to the clinic and now ...”His voice dips.“They want more tests.I need to go to Baker’s Creek to the main hospital.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want to pull you out of work.”
Work.
The word hits like a slap.
Because he knows.He knows I use work like armor.That I stack assignments, flights, and deadlines so I don’t have to sit too long in one place and get hurt.
“Dad,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone like it’s a life raft, “I film sad stories for a living.I can take a break to stop you from becoming one.”
He exhales, and it’s almost a laugh.Almost.It comes out tired.
“You always know what to say.”
I scoff.“Don’t give me credit.It’s mostly survival.”
I hear him clear his throat.I hear him shift, like he’s moving into the part he’s been trying not to say.
“It’s not just me, Ves.”
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
“What do you mean?”The words rush out too fast, like I can outrun whatever comes next.“Are my brothers okay?”
“County came by,” he says.“Inspection.They’re changing requirements.”
My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my teeth.
He keeps going, voice turning hard, bitter in a way I rarely hear from him.“They’re talking about upgrades.Permits.Compliance.Threatening closure if we don’t meet the new standards—in the middle of registration.”
Closure.
My mind refuses it at first.
Camp isn’t a building to our family.It’s not a property line on a map.It’s not a set of cabins and a rink and a lake.
It’s my mother’s truest self.It’s my father teaching kids how to skate without fear.It’s where I learned you can be loud and brave and still belong.It’s where my brothers became who they are—where they learned to get back up after they fell, where they learned discipline, where they learned to win and lose and keep breathing either way.
It’s also where I stopped coming back as often after Mom died five years ago, because grief doesn’t just hurt—it changes the air in your favorite places.It turns joy into a dare.
My eyes burn.My mother isn’t here to turn this into a battle plan.She isn’t here to march into a county office with her clipboard and her smile that could melt through red tape.
It’s just Dad now.
And my brothers—my loud, stubborn, too-proud brothers—who love him and resent him at the same time, because grief didn’t only take our mom.It also took the version of Dad they thought was supposed to be perfect.
I swallow again, throat raw.“Where areLuther and Creed?”
“Your brothers ...they are around.Fighting for a position in the playoffs,” he says, which is Dad-speak forYou don’t interrupt their concentration.“I haven’t told them everything yet.”
Of course he hasn’t—and won’t until the season is over for them.
