Heather took one more breath, straightened her back, and pushed the door open.
The lights in the room were low, and for a moment, all she could hear was the beeping of the monitor and the soft murmur of a voice.
Caius sat beside the bed, a book open in his lap. He was reading aloud, his tone flat and distant, like he wasn’t truly there.
Heather didn’t recognize the story—it sounded strange. Something about a boy lost in a maze.
She stepped in quietly, her limp making her movements soft and uneven. Her heels were long gone. She’d kicked them off hours ago, along with her composure.
Caius looked up, tracking her with his eyes like she was something unfamiliar. He was trying to guess what version of her was returning—was she still the woman screaming in the hallway, or had she reverted to someone more tolerable?
"You’re back," he said.
She gave a single nod and looked toward the bed. Alex’s eyes were open, dull but aware. His little head turned weakly at the sound of her voice.
Heather crossed the room and sat on the other side of the bed. She reached out carefully and took his hand, threading her fingers through his, afraid he might be cold—but he wasn’t.
She didn’t speak. Her voice was too fragile and she didn’t trust it.
Caius closed the book softly. "I was telling him about a boy trapped in a glass maze. Can’t find the exit. Keeps walking into the same walls."
Heather blinked at him. "That’s what you’re reading to a sick child?"
"He seemed to like it," Caius said with a shrug.
She frowned. "It’s about being trapped. That’s not comforting. That’s terrifying."
"He’s not dying because of the book, Heather."
The way he said it—so casually, so unfeeling—made her freeze.
She turned her head slowly. "What did you just say?"
Caius met her eyes. "I said he’s not dying because of the story."
The words landed like a slap.
"Are you joking right now?" she asked, her voice rising.
"No," Caius replied flatly. "You’re looking for something to be angry about. I get it. But this isn’t about the story. Or me."
Heather’s eyes filled again, but not with sorrow. With rage. "Don’t you dare reduce this to some tantrum. I’m angry because you lied to me. You let me believe he was fine."
"I didn’t let you believe anything. I was protecting you."
"Protecting me?" Her laugh was sharp and cold. "You were protecting yourself. You didn’t want to deal with what my grief would look like."
"I knew you’d panic."
"I had a right to panic, Caius! He’s my child!"
"And mine," he said quietly.
Her voice broke. "Only when it’s convenient for you."
That hit something in him. His mouth opened, but no words came. He looked away instead.
"I would’ve held his hand," she whispered. "If you’d just told me. I would’ve prepared myself for this moment, not stay there believing it was just some fever."
Caius rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
Heather leaned forward, her eyes burning into his. "You never do the right thing. You just do the thing that makes you comfortable. That’s all you’ve ever done."
Caius didn’t argue. Maybe because he knew it was true. Or maybe because, for once, he didn’t have a clever reply. .
"You need to relax." He finally said.
Heather’s voice rose. "God, you’re unbelievable. You’re acting is a mild inconvenience. Like he just scraped his knee or something."
"I’m trying to stay calm," Caius said flatly. "Somebody has to be. You’re walking around crying in bathrooms and snapping at nurses."
Heather laughed bitterly. "You think I want to fall apart?"
"I think you’re making it harder for him."
He gestured toward Alex without looking at him. The boy flinched inwardly but said nothing.
Heather rose from her chair, limping. "You self-righteous robot."
"I’m just trying to think," Caius said coolly. "You should try it sometime."
The silence between them stretched like a thread about to snap.
Before she realized it, her hand knocked the book from his lap. It fell to the floor with a soft thud, landing face-down.
The sound wasn’t loud, but in the silence, it felt enormous.
Caius stared at it. Then at her. Not angry—just disappointed. And somehow, that made it worse.
"I hate that you always pretend," she said, her voice trembling. "You pretend to care, you pretend to feel. But you’re not here. Not really. You’ve never been here."
He stood slowly. "You’re angry. I understand."
"No, you don’t," she snapped. "You think you do, but you don’t. Because you didn’t carry him. You didn’t watch him take his first steps. You didn’t sit with him through night fevers or hold him while he cried. You showed up halfway through the story and now you want to write the ending."
Caius flinched at that, a small, involuntary reaction—but she saw it. Still, he didn’t say anything.
"Say something," she hissed.
"Do you want me to scream? Go ahead; blame me. If you like, hit me too."
And the rage drained instantly from her limbs.
Heather bent and picked up the book, her hand brushing dust from the cover. She placed it gently on the nightstand. Then she sat back down, quieter this time.
Alex frowned. He was watching them, his gaze flickered between both his parents. He didn’t like it when they fought.
His mother had a short temper. His father was insensitive. Not in a cruel way, just in a way that made him completely dumb to emotion.
Alex’s fingers curled faintly around hers. And Heather held on like she never wanted to let go.
Because she couldn’t.
Because no one had ever told her how to prepare for the moment when your baby might not survive.
And there was no strength, no logic, no forced calm in the world that could undo that truth.