“No,” Paige said finally.

“Then it is not your property. Dr. Carter is under no obligation to provide access. The restraining order is granted. No contact. Communication through counsel only.”

My mother exhaled softly, wounded. My father muttered bitterly.

“It feels like too much because I stopped absorbing it,” I said gently when my mother pleaded. Her gaze flicked to Milo, clutching her sketchbook like armor. Milo didn’t look frightened.

“She’s just a child,” my mother whispered.

“So was I,” I said, and walked away.

That summer, we returned to the beach house with Leah and the twins. Milo built new traditions: an enormous inflatable swan named Captain Feathers, treasure hunts with buried shells and coins. Her laughter grew fuller each visit, like safety was something her body was relearning.

In late August, Milo’s art teacher emailed me: her piece was selected for the district showcase. I opened the attachment. It was the beach house, detailed down to the wood grain. Silhouettes clustered in the windows. A fourth figure, shaded darker, stood on the porch—not excluded, not outside the frame, but part of the house, part of the story.

I printed it, framed it, and hung it where Milo would see it every morning.

Then October arrived. My phone buzzed. Dad. I ignored it. Again. Then another text:

Bella. It’s an emergency.

Hands cold, mind racing. “Emergency” in my family almost always meant money. Another message followed:

I’m at the hospital. It’s your mom.

Everything shifted.

I left rounds, coffee abandoned. Ethan met me in the parking lot, Milo clinging to his side, sketchbook pressed to her chest like oxygen.

“We’re going to the hospital,” I said.

We found my parents in the ER waiting area. Dad looked smaller, as if months had shaved something off him. Paige paced, frozen when she saw me.

“Finally,” Dad barked.

Ethan shifted slightly in front of Milo.

“What happened?” I asked, ignoring Dad’s tone.

Mark’s voice rough: “Mom collapsed at church. They think it’s a stroke.”

Surgical instinct snapped in: horror in one hand, calculations in the other.

“Where is she?”