The waiting room clock moved with deliberate cruelty.
Eight twenty.
Eight thirty-seven.
Nine eleven.
Every few minutes, someone in scrubs crossed the corridor, and Greg’s head lifted.
None came toward us.
Michael had brought coffee.
Greg forgot to drink his.
I had brought a book.
I read the same paragraph four times before giving up.
At nine twenty-three, Greg stood.
“Bathroom.”
He returned ninety seconds later.
At nine forty, he stood again.
“Water.”
“There is water beside you,” I said.
He looked at the untouched bottle.
“Walk.”
“That I believe.”
Michael watched him pace to the end of the corridor.
“He always like this?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I looked at our son.
“What do you mean?”
Michael nodded toward Greg.
“He always looked calm when we were kids.”
I smiled sadly.
“That was for you.”
Michael considered that.
“When I broke my arm?”
“He nearly vomited in the emergency-room bathroom.”
Michael stared.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“He told me it was nothing.”
“He was terrified.”
“When Emma had pneumonia?”
“Didn’t sleep for three nights.”
“He acted normal.”
“That was his job.”
Michael looked toward his father.
Something changed in his expression.
Children know their parents first as structures.
Walls.
Roofs.
Hands that appear when something breaks.
It takes adulthood to realize the structure was built from frightened human beings improvising behind closed doors.
Greg returned.
Michael handed him the coffee.
“Drink.”
Greg obeyed.
After several minutes, Michael said, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you really almost throw up when I broke my arm?”
Greg looked at me.
“Traitor.”
Michael laughed.
“So yes?”
“You were eight.”
“I remember.”
“The bone looked wrong.”
“It was broken.”
“Exactly.”
“You told me it looked worse than it was.”
“I lied.”
Michael smiled.
“That one I forgive.”
Greg drank his coffee.
Then Michael asked, “Were you scared all the time?”
Greg frowned.
“When you were little?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised both of us.
Greg stared into the cup.
“I assumed everybody was.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
He shrugged.
“You choking. Getting hit by a car. Falling out of a tree. Being kidnapped. Leukemia.”
Michael blinked.
“That escalated.”
“You asked.”
“Did you actually think I had leukemia?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Parents are insane.”
I laughed.
Greg smiled briefly.
Then he became serious.
“The trick was not letting you know.”
Michael leaned back.
“Why?”
“Because you were supposed to believe the world was safe.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
Greg looked at him.
“But you were eight.”
Michael nodded.
“Then we got older.”
“Yes.”
“And you couldn’t protect us anymore.”
Greg’s mouth tightened.
“I could protect you from some things.”
“Not everything.”
“No.”
“And that bothered you.”
Greg looked at me.
I said nothing.
This conversation belonged to them.
“More than it should have,” he admitted.
Michael thought for a moment.
“Did you want me to stay home?”
Greg’s eyes widened.
“No.”
“When I moved overseas.”
“No.”
“You were miserable.”
“I was proud of you.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Greg looked almost offended.
“That sounds like your mother.”
“It sounds correct.”
I smiled.
Greg rubbed his jaw.
“I didn’t want you to stay.”
“But?”
“I wanted not to mind that you left.”
Michael was quiet.
Greg continued.
“I thought if I had done fatherhood correctly, your independence would feel like an accomplishment.”
“Didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“And like being fired.”
Michael laughed once, then stopped when he realized Greg was serious.
“Dad.”
“I know how stupid that sounds.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“No.”
Michael leaned forward.
“You think I stopped needing a father because I learned how to buy groceries?”
“That’s oversimplifying.”
“I know how to change a tire.”
“Barely.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Your jack placement is reckless.”
Michael smiled.
“There he is.”
Greg shook his head.
Michael continued.
“I don’t need you to solve my life.”
“I know.”
“But I still need you in it.”
Greg stared at him.
Michael’s voice became quieter.
“When I got promoted last year, you were the first person I wanted to tell.”
“You called your mother first.”
“Because you didn’t answer.”
Greg looked at me.
I shrugged.
“History has been corrected.”
Michael laughed.
“Dad, when my relationship with Hannah ended, who did I call?”
Greg frowned.
“Me.”
“Why?”
“You were upset.”
“No. Why you?”
Greg thought.
“Because…”
He stopped.
Michael waited.
“Because you knew I’d answer.”
“Exactly.”
Greg looked down.
Michael’s next words were gentle.
“I don’t call because I think you can repair everything. I call because you’re my dad.”
Something in Greg’s face broke.
Not dramatically.
His eyes lowered.
His mouth tightened.
He rubbed one thumb against the coffee cup.
“I wish somebody had explained that ten years ago.”
“I was twenty.”
“You were useless at twenty.”
“Fair.”
They laughed.
The tension loosened.
Then Greg looked at Michael.
“Did I make it hard for you to tell me things?”
Michael hesitated.
Greg noticed.
“Great.”
“No.”
“That hesitation was enormous.”
“It depended.”
“On?”
“Whether I wanted advice.”
Greg winced.
“I always gave advice.”
“Yes.”
“Even when you didn’t ask.”
“Yes.”
“I thought that was helping.”
“I know.”
Michael smiled.
“Sometimes it was.”
“And sometimes?”
“I called Mom.”
I raised my coffee.
“Excellent judgment.”
Greg gave me a look.
Then he laughed.
For another hour, we talked.
Not about Steve.
That itself felt significant.
Greg asked about Michael’s work.
Then, for once, he did not immediately suggest how Michael might negotiate his next promotion.
Michael told us about a woman he had recently begun seeing.
Greg’s eyebrows rose.
“You didn’t tell us.”
“It’s new.”
“How new?”
“Dad.”
“Right.”
Greg stopped.
Michael smiled.
“Her name is Claire.”
Greg nodded.
“Tell us when you want.”
I watched our son notice the restraint.
“Thanks.”
At ten fifty-six, the surgical doors opened.
All three of us stood.
The cardiologist walked toward us.
His expression was unreadable.
Greg’s face drained.
“How is he?”
“The procedure is finished.”
Greg gripped the chair.
“And?”
“We successfully closed the vessel.”
For half a second, nobody reacted.
Then Greg whispered, “Successfully?”
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
Michael exhaled.
Greg closed his eyes.
The cardiologist continued.
“Steve handled anesthesia well. His heart responded as expected.”
Greg’s knees seemed to weaken.
Michael caught his elbow.
“He’s okay?”
“He is recovering.”
Greg laughed.
One small sound.
Then tears came.
He made no attempt to hide them.
“Can I see him?”
“When he’s awake enough.”
“Thank you.”
The cardiologist nodded.
“There is still recovery ahead.”
“I know.”
“And follow-up imaging.”
“I know.”
“But today went as well as we could reasonably hope.”
Hope.
Again.
This time Greg accepted the word.
“Thank you.”
When the doctor left, Greg sat.
Michael put an arm around him.
Greg leaned into his son.
I had never seen that before.
Not because they were distant.
Because Greg had always been the one supporting the weight.
Now, for a minute, he let Michael carry some.
We saw Steve two hours later.
His fur had been shaved in places.
He looked offended by existence.
Greg smiled through tears.
“You look terrible.”
Steve gave a faint squeak.
“That’s my guy.”
A technician explained that he would stay overnight.
Susan could remain nearby.
“She’s been screaming whenever she hears him,” the technician said.
Greg smiled.
“She’s a difficult woman.”
I nudged him.
“Your mother.”
“Exactly.”
Before leaving, Greg stood beside Steve’s enclosure.
He did not promise to return every hour.
He did not ask to sleep in the waiting room.
He said, “See you tomorrow.”
Then he walked away.
At the hotel that evening, Michael ordered dinner.
Greg actually ate.
Halfway through, his phone rang.
Denise.
Greg answered.
He gave her the update.
She was delighted.
Then her tone changed.
I could hear it even from across the table.
Greg’s smile faded.
“Yes,” he said.
A pause.
“I remember.”
Another pause.
“No, I understand.”
He ended the call.
Michael looked up.
“What?”
Greg set the phone down.
“Susan’s adoption meeting.”
I had forgotten.
It was scheduled for the following week.
“What about it?” I asked.
“The family wants to meet her sooner.”
“How soon?”
“This weekend.”
Greg looked toward the hotel window.
“They’re willing to wait until we return.”
Michael asked, “Do you want them to?”
Greg did not answer.
I knew why.
Steve had survived.
The crisis that had allowed Greg to focus on saving him was receding.
Now came the harder part.
Letting go of the one who did not need saving.
“We should meet them,” Greg said.
I studied him.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
That was honest.
“But we should.”
Michael nodded.
Greg picked up his fork again.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from Denise.
He read it.
“What now?” I asked.
His eyebrows rose.
“The adopter knows about Steve.”
“And?”
“They asked whether the kittens can be adopted together.”
The room went silent.
Greg looked at me.
Every problem we had used to justify keeping Steve close had just changed.
A family might want both.
Even the sick one.
Even the complicated one.
Greg stared at the message.
And I realized the hardest test had never been whether he could save Steve.
It would be whether, after saving him, Greg could let somebody else love him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: The Family Who Wanted Both Kittens Offered Everything Greg Claimed to Want for Them, Which Left Him With No Reason to Say No
For Three Weeks Greg Left Our Bed After Midnight, and One Missing Family Keepsake Made His Explanation Impossible to Believe
Part 14 of 24
