"What did the doctor really say?"
Heather didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She already knew he had lied. It was in the way he had smiled earlier, a smile too soft and too careful, like it had been practiced in a mirror.
It was in the evenness of his tone, the way he held eye contact for just long enough to seem confident, but not long enough to show vulnerability.
He had lied, and she wasn’t asking to confirm it—she was asking to hear the truth from his own mouth.
Caius didn’t answer right away.
He looked at her, then at the floor, then finally exhaled like the words were made of metal lodged in his chest.
"Alex might die," he said quietly.
Her heart seized. A sudden pressure rose up inside her, as if someone had reached into her chest and squeezed.
"Might?" she repeated, her voice thin and barely there.
Caius swallowed. "He has a brain tumor."
Heather’s breath escaped her body so fast it left her dizzy. She staggered back a half-step and gripped the wall for balance. "A... what?" The words didn’t feel real. Her face twisted as the shock cracked through her. "You’re smiling while telling me my son has a brain tumor?"
"I’m not smiling," Caius said, quickly. "I’m staying calm. And I’m telling you—he’s going to survive it. I’ve already arranged for one of the best neurosurgeons to fly in—"
"If he needs a brain surgeon, then it’s not minor," she snapped. Her voice cracked mid-sentence. "Stop lying to me!"
"I’m not lying. I’m trying to keep you grounded."
Heather shoved his hands away when he reached out to her. "Don’t touch me. Don’t tell me to calm down, Caius! If he’s having brain surgery, it means it’s serious! Why didn’t you just say that? Why did you make it sound like—like he was just tired?"
"Because if I had told you in the hallway, you would’ve broken down even before you came here. You panic a lot and that won’t save him. I’m not going to let you spiral in front of him," Caius said, keeping his voice low. "And I won’t let that happen, he needs strength."
"I’m not spiraling," Heather choked. "I’m grieving, you bastard!"
Her voice rose sharply, too loud. The words shot out of her like knives.
Caius glanced back at the door to the hospital room. Then he looked around the corridor. His jaw tightened. "Will you keep your voice down? A child is trying to rest."
Heather followed his gaze, then looked away sharply. Her ankle throbbed again—red, swollen, irritated—and she leaned down to rub it, more out of reflex than anything else.
"You may want to get that checked out," Caius said.
"It just needs rest," she murmured. Her tone had softened, dulled by exhaustion. For a second, it was like the fight between them had simply been paused, as if her pain had disrupted the rhythm of the argument. Then she looked up at him, her voice flat. "Go away. I don’t want to see you."
He didn’t respond right away. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was still standing there.
She could feel his stare, heavy and unmoving, like a weight pressing against her skin.
Then the door closed behind him with a gentle click, and she was alone.
Heather let out a slow, shaky breath and leaned her back against the wall. Her whole body was trembling now, though she didn’t know if it was from anger, fear, or the simple fact that she hadn’t eaten or slept in too long. Her heart was still pounding. Her limbs felt stiff.
She didn’t know what to do.
Caius had said a specialist was coming. That should have reassured her. But he had also said Alex might die. That word kept bouncing around in her skull, smearing every thought it touched.
*How likely was that might?* Was it a fifty-fifty chance? Less? More? What had the doctor really said to him that he wasn’t telling her?
She didn’t want to fall apart in the hallway. She didn’t want to become the kind of mother who couldn’t be trusted with the truth.
So she made herself stand.
Her ankle hurt. Every step was uneven. But she made her way to the restroom at the end of the corridor, because if she was going back into that room, she needed to look like someone her son could believe in.
Heather stared at her reflection in the mirror, her fingers gripping the edges of the porcelain sink like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
The running water was meant to soothe her, to help her breathe through the ache, but it did nothing. Not really.
She had washed her face. Scrubbed it, actually. But the redness in her eyes remained, the puffiness around them a stubborn reminder that she had broken—again.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Her son. Her baby. She had carried him for nine months, sung to him before he was even born.
She had held his tiny fingers when he took his first breath. And now she was supposed to accept that he might *not* make it to his next birthday?
She pressed a hand over her mouth as another wave of anguish threatened to drown her.
Her shoulders shook—but no sound escaped. She refused to let herself fall apart again.
And especially not in front of him.
What hurt more than anything wasn’t just the news. It was that Caius had known—and lied. He had smiled while telling her it was "minor," while Alex lay in a hospital bed, hooked to machines, too weak to lift his hand.
Caius had always lied. Always wore that calm, logical mask. Like pretending something wasn’t real could protect them from it. She hated it.
She hated how he acted like he suddenly cared. Like he was suddenly a father, now that there were consequences. Where was that version of him before all this?