I stormed up the stairs and down the hallway, my FBI badge swinging against my chest. The muffled groans from behind Christine’s door grated on my nerves. I rapped my knuckles against the wood, the sharp sound echoing in the silence.
"Christine! Time to get up!"
My voice was a crack of authority in the still morning. No response. I pushed open the door, sunlight streaming in to reveal her cocooned in blankets, an arm thrown over her eyes.
"You're going to be late for school again."
"Five more minutes," she groaned, her words muffled.
"Christine, this isn't a negotiation."
I crossed my arms, watching as she burrowed deeper into the bed. Her dark hair was a stark contrast against the white pillowcase, her rebellious spirit on full display even in slumber. She had dyed it black over the summer, matching her gothic style and outfits.
"Whatever," she murmured, the defiance in her tone rising like the Florida heat outside.
"Up. Now."
It was a command, not a request. But she just turned away, and I felt that familiar tug of frustration knotting in my stomach. Was it my fault? Was I too absent, too entangled in crimes and cases, leaving my own daughter adrift?
Shaking off the thought, I left her room with a final, stern look and headed for the backyard. Through the kitchen window, I spotted Alex. His sandy blond hair was a golden blur as he darted around, a soccer ball at his feet. He kicked it hard against the fence, each thump a testament to his relentless drive.
"Alex!" I called out, sliding the glass door open. He didn’t hear me; his focus was so intense on his next move andhis next goal. "I’m not gonna say it again. Breakfast is ready!"
"Coming!" he shouted back without breaking stride, sending another kick into the ball that sent it flying high.
"Make sure you do, now!" I added with a sharper edge. We were already pressed for time, and I couldn’t afford any delays today.
"Okay, okay, Mom!" Alex replied, his tone light but laced with that competitive edge that had him at the top of his soccer league.
"Good."
I watched him for a moment longer, his youthful energy a contrast to the weight on my shoulders. He scooped the ball under his arm and jogged toward the house, his dedication unwavering. If only I could bottle up some of that drive and pour it into Christine's morning coffee.
Closing the sliding door behind Alex, I caught Matt's eye. He was wiping his hands on a dish towel, his posture ramrod straight despite the prosthetic that now stood in place of his leg. His gaze locked with mine, and the silent communication between us spoke volumes.
"Christine," I started, my voice steady but the undercurrent of worry betraying my calm exterior. "She won't get up for school again."
Matt leaned against the counter, his brows knitted together. "How many days has it been?"
"Too many." My fingers traced the edge of my badge, the metal cool and unforgiving. "If she keeps this up…." The sentence trailed off, unfinished, but the implication hung heavy between us.
"She's smart, Eva," Matt said, his tone reassuring but not dismissive. "She's just going through a phase, you know? Teenagers.”
"Is it just a phase?" I countered, feeling the frustration bubble up inside me. "Or is it because I’m?—"
"Stop that," he cut in, firm yet gentle. "You’re an incredible mom. You can't be here every second; we both have jobs that matter. She knows that."
I sighed, the sound mingled with the hiss of the coffee machine behind me. "Jobs that matter," I echoed, the words tasting bitter. "But at what cost?"
Matt limped forward, closing the distance between us. His hand found mine, squeezing it in silent solidarity. Our partnership was more than just work; it was a lifeline in moments like this.
"Christine will graduate," he stated with conviction. "She’s a fighter—like her mother."
"Sometimes, I wish she didn’t have to fight so hard." My eyes found his, searching for the reassurance that I couldn’t seem to muster for myself.
"Hey, we'll get through this. Together." His thumb stroked the back of my hand, grounding me.
I nodded, absorbing the strength from his touch. "Together," I repeated, allowing myself to believe it.
