"She's comfortable now," he said, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my shirt in a gesture that felt both professional and personal. "Let her rest as long as she can."
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady, and watched as he turned to walk away. Before Cole could disappear down the hallway, and before I lost my courage entirely, I reached out and caught his hand in mine. His skin was cold and rough from years of working with his hands, and the contact sent that familiar jolt of recognition through my system that I was beginning to associate with all four members of their pack.
"Cole," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Wait."
He turned back toward me, his dark eyes scanning my face. "How long?" I asked, the words coming out smaller and more broken than I'd intended. "I need to know. How long does she have?"
Something shifted in Cole's expression, a sadness so profound it made my chest ache in sympathy. He glanced back toward Mom's room, where we could hear the steady rhythm of her improved breathing, then looked at me with eyes that held too much knowledge about death and dying and the cruel mathematics of terminal illness.
"Days," he said quietly, his voice gentle but unflinchingly honest. "A week at most."
The words hit me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs and making the hallway tilt sideways around me. I'd known, somewhere deep in the part of my mind that I'd been trying to ignore, that this was coming. But hearing it stated so plainly, with such clinical certainty, made it real in a waythat all the careful observations and whispered fears hadn't accomplished.
My knees went weak, and I felt myself swaying as if the floor beneath my feet had become unsteady. The walls seemed to press closer; the air grew thin. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, and I realized I was about to faint.
Cole moved with the quick reflexes of someone accustomed to medical crises, his hands finding my shoulders to steady me before I could collapse entirely. "Easy," he murmured, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Let's get you sitting down."
His palm pressed against the small of my back, steering me toward the hallway where the old wooden chair sat beneath a pile of half-folded sheets. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. He caught my elbow when I stumbled, his fingers leaving impressions as he eased me down onto the seat. The chair creaked. My fingers fluttered against my thighs like trapped birds, and each breath whistled through my teeth, leaving my chest hollow and my vision sparkling at the edges.
Cole knelt in front of me, bringing himself down to my eye level. His toffee scent wrapped around me, mixing with the cold antiseptic smell that clung to his clothes, creating something that was oddly comforting despite the devastating news he'd just delivered.
"The morphine will help," he said, his voice steady and sure despite the emotion I could see in his dark eyes. "Her passing will be pain free. The medication will keep her comfortable, keep her from struggling for breath the way she was at the hospital."
I tried to process what he was saying, tried to find comfort in the promise of a peaceful death, but all I could think about was how little time we had left, how many things I'd been planning to say and do when she got better, when we had more time, when the crisis had passed.
"But she looks so much better," I protested, my voice thick with tears that were already spilling down my cheeks. "She was awake, talking, laughing at your jokes. She ate almost half the bowl of risotto. How can she be dying when she seems so much more alive than she has in weeks?"
Cole's expression grew even gentler, if such a thing were possible, and I saw recognition in his eyes that suggested this was a conversation he'd had many times before with families struggling to understand the cruel mathematics of terminal illness.
"It's called a rally," he said softly, his hands coming up to rest on my knees in a gesture that anchored me to something solid while the world shifted around me. "Often, patients will have a period of seeming improvement right before the end. Their pain decreases, their breathing becomes easier, they become more alert and able to engage with the people they love," he paused, studying my face with infinite compassion. "It's the body's way of giving families a chance to say goodbye."
The tears were flowing freely now, running down my face in hot streams I made no effort to wipe away. Everything he was saying made terrible, perfect sense, explaining the false hope that had been building in my chest all afternoon as I watched Mom become more like her old self than she'd been in months.
"She should have warned me," I whispered, though even as I said it, I knew that wasn't fair. How could Dr. Patterson have predicted something that sounded more like a cruel miracle than a medical phenomenon?
"Most people don't know to expect it," Cole said, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of my jeans in small, comforting circles. "Even medical professionals can be caught off guard by how dramatic the improvement can seem."
I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands as sobs shook my entire frame. All the strength I'd been trying to maintainfor Mom, for the children, for everyone who depended on me to be steady and capable, crumbled at once. I cried for the conversations we'd never have, for the milestones she'd never see the children reach, for the empty space she'd leave behind in a world that already felt too fragile to survive another loss.
Cole's arms came around me then, pulling me against his chest with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual serious demeanor. His embrace was warm and solid, his toffee scent mixing with the salt of my tears and creating something that felt like safety in the middle of devastation.
"You won't be alone through this," he whispered against my hair, his voice so quiet that his words felt like secrets shared between us. "We'll be here. All of us. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."
I clung to him. His heartbeat was steady against my ear, a reminder that life continued even in the face of death, that there were people willing to stand beside me when everything felt like it was falling apart.
"What do I tell the children?" I asked, my voice muffled against his chest.
"Whatever feels right," he replied, his hand stroking my back with gentle repetition. "They're stronger than you think, and they deserve the chance to say goodbye too, if that's what you think is best."
I pulled back slightly to look at his face, seeing compassion there that went far beyond professional obligation. "How do you do this?" I asked. "How do you deal with death every day and still care so much?"
Something flickered across his expression, too quick for me to identify, but when he spoke his voice was steady. "Because life is precious," he said simply. "Every moment matters, especially the last ones. And no one should have to face those moments alone."
He helped me to my feet, his hands steady on my arms until he was sure I could stand without swaying. "Go back to her," he said gently. "Spend whatever time she has left by her side. Say the things you need to say, listen to whatever she wants to tell you. We'll handle everything else."
I nodded, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and trying to gather enough composure to return to Mom's room without falling apart. "Thank you," I said, the words feeling insufficient for everything he'd given me—honest answers, gentle comfort, and the promise that I wouldn't face the coming days alone.
Cole nodded, with the ghost of a smile.
