Rowan’s taillightsdisappear at the end of the driveway, blinking once before the road curves and swallows her up.
For half a second, I wonder if I overreacted.
Then my chest tightens, the familiar vice grip settling in, and I shove the thought away.
I didn’t overreact. It’s my job to worry about my kids. To make sure nothing happens to them. To keep them safe.
I storm into the kitchen and open the cabinet over the fridge, grabbing the bottle of whiskey. I don’t care that it’s not even three o’clock yet. I need something to ease my frayed nerves, my hands still shaking, panic clawing at my chest.
When I’d repeatedly called Rowan and she never answered, I immediately went back there. To thatmoment. To the hospital hallway that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Watching a nurse wheel my daughter past me on a stretcher, her face scraped raw, her arm strapped into a makeshift sling.
I’m her father. An emergency room doctor.
Yet I’d never felt so damn helpless.
Useless.
Terrified.
I swore I’d never feel that way again. Swore I’d do everything in my power to keep Jemmy and Presley safe.
They’re all I have left, and the mere idea of something happening to either of them claws at me.
So no. I don’t think I was out of line.
I pour several fingers into a glass and bring it up to my mouth, taking a large swallow. Alcohol isn’t the best coping mechanism, but I need it right now. Need to feel something other than…whatever this is.
As I slam back another large gulp, downing the remainder of the whiskey, the front door opens.
I return the bottle to the cabinet and head toward the foyer. But when Presley sees it’s me instead of Rowan, her smile falters.
“Where’s Rowan?” my mother asks from behind her.
“Why didn’t Beckham or Haley pick up Presley?”
“Beckham couldn’t get away from the vineyard, and Haley had to deliver a cake. Where’s Rowan?” she presses again.
I part my lips, searching for the words I need. It’s not the first time my mother’s dropped Presley off from school to learn I’ve fired the nanny.
But this one feels different.
It shouldn’t.
She wasn’t in our lives for that long.
But she still managed to leave an impression. On Jemmy. On Presley.
And on me.
“Why don’t you go grab a snack?” I say to Presley, hoping my mom will have some wise words to help me break the news to my kids.
But my daughter doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops her backpack to the floor with a thud and crosses her arms tight over her stomach.
“Presley,” I warn, an edge in my voice.
She still doesn’t move.
Stubborn like her mother.
