“In imaging. CT scan in progress.”

I rattled off her details automatically. Recognition flickered in the nurse’s eyes.

“Right-sided weakness, slurred speech at onset. CT pending,” she whispered.

Paige stepped closer. “Don’t play hero now,” she hissed.

“I do care,” I said. “And I’m not here to fight you.”

“You stressed her,” Paige snapped. “You caused this.”

Dad’s voice rose. “You broke your mother’s heart.”

Spring arrived with a fragile peace, suspiciously quiet compared to the usual chaos.

Mom went to PT. Dad stopped drinking beer at noon. Mark called weekly—not for favors, just conversation. Sometimes he asked Milo about her drawings. Sometimes Ethan about work. Sometimes he listened while Milo argued fantasy plots like a courtroom case.

Paige stayed distant, sharp messages to Mom that no longer reached me.

Mom and I lunched twice. The first time, she cried the whole meal. The second, she brought a small photo album.

“I found these,” she said, passing it across the table. Photos of Milo’s early years—six-year-old missing a tooth, sparkler in hand, squinting with Paige’s kids.

“You had these?” I asked.

Mom nodded, guilty. “I don’t know why I never…”

“Because she already belonged,” I said quietly.

I took the album home and showed Milo. She traced the photos with her finger. “I’m there,” she whispered.

“You always were.”

“Then why did it feel like I wasn’t?”

“Some people keep you in the frame but push you out of the story. Not your fault.”

Milo nodded. “Can we go to the beach house for my birthday?”

“Yes,” I said. Leah, the twins, Mark, and his eldest son joined. Paige and Dad stayed away—Dad hadn’t apologized to Milo yet.

Birthday morning: dolphins in the distance. Milo on the deck, wind tugging her braid, smiling openly.

Mark approached her, awkward, gift in hand. “I’m sorry… I should’ve spoken up. You’re family. I should’ve acted.”

Milo softened. “Okay.”

She opened gifts: sketchbook, pens. “These are… nice,” she murmured.