Chapter 2
The words landed heavily in the room.
Mom’s polite smile lingered one second before fading. She glanced at the coffee in her hand as though she’d forgotten why it was there.
“Miranda, honey, that isn’t fair,” she said. “We were in the middle of a move. The movers were two hours late, there were boxes everywhere, my phone was at the bottom of my purse, and—”
“Nine calls,” I said. “You can check the log if you like. The first one was at 9:30 this morning, right after Dr. Patel told me the next twenty-four hours were critical and I realized I was afraid. The second was ten minutes later. Then I got a text from you. ‘We’re at Lauren’s. Is this urgent?'”
Dad stood inside the doorway, car keys clenched in his fist, shifting uneasily.
“Mira,” he began. He was the only person who still called me that, and he only did it when he wanted something to sound softer than it was. “Your mother answered you right away. We didn’t know how bad it was.”
“I was reading that text while a nurse waited to wheel me into the operating room.”
Silence.
Only the monitor beside me continued its steady beeping.
“Around two this afternoon,” I continued, “the doctors found a bleed they had to fix immediately. They took me back into surgery. It was short, and it went well, and I’m going to be fine. But before I went, a nurse asked me who she should call if something went wrong. I gave her Mom’s number. She called it while I was being prepared for the procedure. She told me later that it rang until the voicemail picked up.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“When I woke up, I called again,” I said. “And again. I called Dad. I called the family group chat. I left a message. Do you want to know what I said?”
“Miranda,” my mother whispered.
“I said, ‘Mom, Dad, please come. I’m scared.'”
I let the words settle.
“I have never said those words to either of you. Not once, in thirty-four years. Do you know why?”
Dad’s jaw moved, but he said nothing.
“Because I learned very early that there wasn’t room.”
Julian stepped away from the window. Tall and composed, silver touching his temples, he had a way of steadying any room. A leather folder rested in his hands like a medical chart.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harding,” he said. “I’m Julian Vance, of Harding and Vance. I believe we’ve met at a few of Miranda’s events.”
