I hear him exhale. “Your ridiculous bedhead. And the way you hog the covers. What I wouldn’t give to have your burnt toast and bacon with eggs tomorrow.”
“It’s only a few days, yeah?” My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “I know I’m a brilliant cook, and you love eating it. I love making it for you too. I never make breakfast for anyone else. Well, more like ‘I can’t really make breakfast, period’.”
George chuckles, but it sounds strained, like he’s pushing through the same ache I feel. “Which is why it’s fucking special.” He pauses, speaking slower and almost reluctant. “Get your shit sorted and come home, Lance.”
I grew up in Seattle, where my family is, where everything I spent the last ten years running from is waiting for me to stop running.
But home is somewhere else. Home is an auto shop in Spring Valley, a man who picks up on the first ring and doesn’t need me to explain why something matters before he takes it seriously.
I start the engine and pull out into the street.
A week, hopefully less. Then I’ll be back where I belong.
33
Lance
Two weeks in Seattle, and I hope I can stick to the return date already pinned down. I’ve had to push my flight back more than once now.
Mom hit a rough patch after her most recent round of chemo when I was supposed to go back to San Diego that first time. The reaction was so much worse than expected, that it kept her in bed for three straight days. I extended my leave to be around her.
It’s not that she doesn’t have help—she does. Between the private nurses, oncology team, and Marcus, she’s covered.
But treatment decisions have been coming fast lately, and somebody has to be around asking questions when the doctors start speaking fluent oncology.
Dr. Lee walked us through the latest scans a few days ago. The good news is the chemotherapy is doing what it’s supposed to do. The primary tumor has responded well, and there are signs the treatment is buying them the surgical window they were hoping for. If that continues, surgery is still on the table.
Nobody’s promising a number of months or years, but for the first time in a while, every conversation isn’t centered around worst-case scenarios.
We’re finally talking about next steps instead of backup plans.
Hearthside work took longer too.
Once the board realized I wasn’t just visiting, they started pulling me into meetings.
Most of the problems Grant showed me on day one turned out to be exactly what I suspected—less “everything is on fire” and more “nobody’s been allowed near the extinguisher in six months.”
It’s good that people here actually give a shit.
The staff cares. The board cares. Nobody’s asleep at the wheel. They just need somebody to untangle the mess long enough to figure out what needs fixing first. So, that’s what I’ve been doing.
Building timelines. Prioritizing what gets fixed first. Reworking grant outreach. Cleaning up reporting processes. Looking at staffing projections six months out instead of six days. The work itself isn’t complicated, but it requires somebody to be around long enough to connect all the moving pieces.
More importantly, it should keep working after I’m gone.
By the end of the second week, the board still asks me to meet one last time before I go.
I sit at the end of a conference table with seven people who knew my aunt in varying degrees, all of them looking at me with some sort of gratitude and scrutiny. It’s like when help arrives at exactly the right moment, and they’re trying to figure out whether it’s temporary.
At the end of the meeting, Constance, the board chair and one of the few people still here from the day my aunt founded Hearthside Home, folds her hands on the table.
“We’d like to formalize your involvement,” she states. “In whatever capacity makes sense.”
The offer catches me off guard. I thank them, but I respectfully decline. I tell them my mother is in treatment, that I’ll come back when I can. They’re welcome to call if they need another set of eyes on something.
They nod and try very hard not to look disappointed. I try very hard not to feel guilty about it, but nobody’s moving to Seattle.
I drive back to the house after the meeting, the city lights blurring past my window as the weight of the day settles in my chest. Mom’s already had her early dinner with the nurse when I get there, so I sit with her for a bit, making sure she’s comfortable before heading up to my room.
