Page 64 of A Prescription to My Heart

“Soren. Talia,” Patrick says. “Morning.”

Camille just nods and smiles at Marigold. “Good morning, baby. You look beautiful.”

Marigold beams. “Thank you.”

We sit in an awkward semi-circle, chewing French toast like it’s a peace offering. Talia eventually excuses herself to help Marigold get dressed upstairs.

And then it’s just me and them.

Camille sets her teacup down. “We meant to say this last night, but the evening got away from us.”

“The Gala was… enlightening,” Patrick says, leaning forward slightly.

I glance between them. “How so?”

“You two,” he says carefully. “You seemed… connected. Real.”

I swallow hard. “We are.”

“You love her?” Camille’s question is sharp. Sharp enough that it throws me.

I blink, caught in a moment I didn’t prepare for. “I care about Talia. A lot.”

Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.

Camille’s eyes soften, and for once, there’s no venom in her voice. “We understand you lost a wife, Soren. But we lost our daughter. You know what that kind of grief does to a person?”

“Yes,” I say, slowly nodding.

“She was our only child,” Patrick adds, voice gravelly with uncharacteristic emotion. “And when she died, we didn’t just lose her. We lost pieces of ourselves. Marigold… she became our tether.”

Camille’s hand shakes a little as she cups her tea again. “You weren’t always present, Soren. And after… you were drowning, and we were scared. We didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know how to reach myself either.”

Silence.

Then, Patrick lets out a long breath. “You’ve changed. She—Talia—she’s good for you. And for Marigold.”

“That’s what we saw last night,” Camille agrees. “Talia gave us quite a talking to.”

“She did?” I don’t know how to take that.

And then, amazingly, Camille laughs—with a smile that reaches her eyes. “Oh yes. Patrick’s right. She’s good for you.”

I look down at my coffee. My fingers are tight around the handle.

“We want to be a part of Marigold’s life,” Camille says, “but not at the expense of your family.”

I meet her eyes. “I want that too. I just—”

“You’re doing okay, son,” Patrick stops me. “Really. You are.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat’s too tight. Then the sound of Marigold’s laugh echoes down the stairs, and all I can do is nod.

***

Camille and Patrick leave after lunch with hugs and soft goodbyes. No veiled threats. No legal jabs. Just genuine goodbyes.

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