"And when she got sick?" Dante prompted gently.
"Someone had to keep it going.” I lowered my head staring at the lines on the linoleum floor. “The children had already lost everything." I bit my lower lip thinking about my mom lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life. “They needed stability,” I said looking up.
"Seven of them, Dante said," Angus observed.
"Seven now. There have been more over the past two years, children we've managed to place with families willing to adopt. But since the earthquake, that is few and far between.” I sat upright. “But these children..." I smiled despite the circumstances, thinking of Loubie Lou's fierce attachment to her one-eared rabbit, Manny's careful arrangement of his broken truck, Susie's protective attitude toward the younger ones. "They're mine now. Not legally, maybe, but in every way that matters."
"It cannae be easy," Angus said, leaning forward slightly. "Feeding that many mouths, keeping them clothed and housed. Especially with yer mam needing medical care."
The understatement of the century. I almost laughed, but it would have come out bitter and probably ended in tears. "Some days I'm not sure how we manage it. But somehow we make it work."
"Because ye love them," Angus said simply.
"Because they deserve someone who loves them," I corrected. "Every child deserves that. And if their original families can't provide it, then someone has to step up."
Something shifted in Angus's expression, a recognition that made me think he understood exactly what I was talking about. "Aye, they do. And it takes someone special tae be that person."
The conversation was making me feel exposed, as if these strangers could see through all the careful defenses I'd built around the life I'd chosen. But at the same time, there was something profoundly comforting about being understood, about having someone listen to what I did without immediately questioning whether I was qualified or capable to make the right choices.
The exhaustion that I'd been holding at bay through sheer determination finally caught up with me all at once. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and the warm scent of melted marshmallows from Dante's proximity was wrapping around me like a blanket. Without quite meaning to, I found myself leaning sideways in my chair until my shoulder bumped against his arm.
"Go ahead," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rest for a few minutes."
I should have protested. I should have stayed alert, ready to jump up the moment news came about Mom's condition or handle whatever crisis might emerge next. But my body had apparently reached the limit of what it could endure on willpower alone. My head settled against Dante's shoulder, and his arm came up around me with the kind of careful gentleness that suggested he was well aware of how fragile I felt right now.
Sleep took me like a tide rolling in; warm, irresistible and deeper than I'd managed in weeks.
When I woke, the first thing I noticed was a different scent in the air. Still comforting, but sharper now. Peppermint swirled around me, with undertones of something that made me think of early morning runs through empty streets. My eyes opened to find the man from earlier sitting in Angus's chair, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't.
"Bennett," Dante said by way of introduction, his voice carefully quiet. "He wanted to make sure you were all right."
I straightened carefully, suddenly conscious that I'd been sleeping against Dante's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Nothing to apologize for," Bennett said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that suggested he was accustomed to making decisions that others followed without question. "You've been through enough today. Your mother is asking for you."
The words jolted me fully awake. I started to rise, but Bennett held up a hand to stop me.
"She's doing better," he said quickly. "The IV fluids have helped reduce some of the congestion. She wants to see you, and she specifically asked that Dante come too."
Relief flooded through me so completely that my knees felt weak. "She's really okay?"
"She's stable," Bennett said carefully. "The doctor says she's responding well to the medication. But Heather..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "She's worried about you. About the cost of all this." I internally rolled my eyes at that. Even while fighting for her own breath, Mom would be calculating how much this was costing, how many meals for the children each IV bag represented, how many pairs of shoes or winter coats we'd have to do without to pay for keeping her alive.
"Let's go see her," I said, standing on legs that still felt unsteady.
Dante rose beside me, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture of support that felt natural despite our brief acquaintance. Together, we followed Bennett down the hallway toward Mom's room, passing other families dealing with their own crises, other people learning to navigate the kind of helplessness that came with watching someone you loved fight battles you couldn't help them win.
Mom's room was small and sparse, dominated by the bed and the various machines that monitored her vital signs. But she was sitting up when we entered, propped against pillows withcolor in her cheeks that I hadn't seen for weeks. Her eyes were clearer too, no longer clouded by the pain and exhaustion that had been consuming her.
"There you are," she said, reaching out to take my hand. "And this must be the young man who helped you get me here."
Dante stepped forward, and I watched him take in the blood stains on his shirt—Mom's blood from when he'd carried her. "I should apologize for the state of my clothes," he said. "I should have changed before coming to meet you properly."
Mom waved away his concern with surprising strength. "Don't be silly. You probably saved my life getting me here when you did." She studied his face with the sharp attention she'd always applied to people who showed kindness to her children. "Thank you. For helping her when she needed it most."
"It was nothing," Dante said, but Mom shook her head.
"It was everything," she said firmly. "And I can see in your face that you know that as well as I do."
