Page 21 of The Golden Hour

“The same excuse he always uses,” Melissa mutters, her lips pursing. “Marlene and Rob wanted to put his damn head through a wall after Sunday. Honey, what does he say when you try to talk to him?”

“Nothing.”

Melissa raises an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

“He doesn’t say anything because he never has the time to talk.”

“What the hell is his plan when Daisy comes?” Melissa frowns. “Is he taking paternity leave?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Honey shrugs. “I don’t…”

Honey trails off, not entirely sure what she’s going to say. Or worse, she just doesn’t want to say it out loud. She hasn’t had a real conversation with her husband in months. When he’s home, he's exhausted and sleeps.

Until that phone rings, asking for extra hands, and he’s running out the door.

She doesn’t entirely understand why. She knows he wants to prove himself, that he wants an attending physician so bad he can taste it, that he wants to be respected for the talented physician he is. But he’s burning himself out.

“I need to—” Honey’s voice cracks. She clears her throat, takes a deep breath, and lifts her chin. “I need to come home.”

Phil freezes, while Melissa snaps her gaze to her daughter.

Hope wells up inside both of their eyes. As soon as Honey says the words, the tightness in her chest lightens slightly.

She can’t stay in this house alone anymore. She is constantly terrified that she is going to walk up the stairs, get a dizzy spell, and fall. She has nightmares about Mason coming home exhausted and literally stepping over her body, not even realizing she’s hurt.

She’s terrified and lonely and scared.

And she’s done.

“I want to come home,” Honey nods. “If that’s okay⁠⁠—”

“Honeybee,” Melissa gently cuts off her daughter. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

Honey opens her mouth and feels the need to explain herself.

“I know he loves us⁠⁠—”

“But that ain’t all there is,” Phil shakes his head. “The Beatles were full of shit.”

“Daddy,” Honey gently scolds, but grins at him.

Melissa smiles and presses a kiss to Honey’s head.

“Do you want us to start packing some things?”

Her heart pounds. She’s really doing it. She’s really leaving; she’s just not entirely sure what—the house or the marriage.

Probably both at this point.

She also wonders, rather bitterly, how long it will take Mason to realize her absence. She thinks about grabbing her phone, calling and calling until he finally picks up, squeezing in a few sentences between emergencies, and telling him about leaving.

And then she realizes she doesn’t have the patience for it.

Not anymore.

“Yes, please,” Honey says.

Her father practically springs off the ground in a way that his fifty-five-year-old mechanic body should not be able to. He grabs the boxes of diapers and heads toward the door, saying that he is going to pack them into the car.