Page 16

The break room door swings open. Jax walks in holding an empty coffee mug in one hand and an open bag of Cheetos in the other, sees the three of us at the table – Rosa with her crossword, Luke with his jaw set, me with my arms crossed – and stops dead.

His eyes move from Rosa to Luke to me. The assessment takes less than a second.

“Nope,” Jax says. He does a clean one-eighty, mug still in hand, and walks back out. Through the glass panel, I see him keep walking – past the coffee machine he came for, past the nurses’ station, around the corner, and out of sight. He does not look back. He does not slow down. The Cheetos go with him.

“Smart man,” Rosa says, and sips her coffee.

“Mama–”

“Lucas.” Rosa says his full name. The temperature in the room drops. She sets the coffee cup down with a deliberate click against the Formica. “I hear you. Both of you. You’re saying the timeline is yours. You’re saying I need to be patient. You’re saying this is your life, and I should respect the boundaries.”

“Yes,” Luke says. “Exactly.”

“Of course, mijo.” She nods. “It’s your life. Your timeline. I understand completely.”

There is a pause. The fluorescent light hums. The motivational poster watches.

“Good,” Luke says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Rosa picks up her pen. She goes back to the crossword. “Six letters. ‘Gift for a new parent.’ Starts with B.”

“Mama.”

“It’s a crossword, Lucas. I’m doing a crossword. Go back to work.”

We leave. In the corridor, Luke looks at me.

“That went well,” I say.

“That went terribly.”

“She agreed.”

“She agreed the way a general agrees to a ceasefire. She’s regrouping.”

“You think she’s going to escalate?”

“I think she’s been escalating since September. I think what we just saw was her cruising altitude.”

He peels off toward the trauma bays – this is his floor, he’s already home. I ride the elevator up to six alone. We don’t discuss it further, because there’s nothing further to discuss. We drew a line. Rosa acknowledged the line. Rosa will absolutely, categorically, without question, cross the line.

The only variable is when.

The answer is: forty-seven minutes.

I’m waiting by the ambulance bay doors when Luke pushes through them – jacket on, bag over his shoulder, car keys already out. It’s 18:17. We are eleven steps from the parking lot.

My phone pings. Then his phone pings. Then both phones ping simultaneously, which is a level of synchronised maternal assault that should be studied by military strategists.

It’s a calendar invitation.

Title: GRANDBABIES

Recurrence: Monthly.

Notes: Just a reminder. No pressure. Love, Mama.

I stare at my screen. Luke stares at his.