Page 98 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
The drive home from the clinic felt different. Mom sat beside me in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, staring out at the familiar streets of Chatham with tears streaming down her cheeks. Dr. White's words echoed in my mind—liver enzymes stabilized, energy levels improving, continued sobriety essential.
It felt so foreign after so many years of watching my mother slowly destroy herself. I had prepared for the worst news, had steeled myself for conversations about treatment options and timelines. Instead, we had received the first genuinely positive report in years.
"Pull over," Mom whispered as we turned onto our street.
I guided the car to the curb and shifted into park. Before I could ask what she needed, she dissolved completely. Her shoulders shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her belly. All the fear and guilt and desperate relief she had been holding back poured out in our small car.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for her. She fell against me, and I held her the way she used to hold me when I was small and the world felt too big to handle alone.
"I thought I was going to die," she said against my shoulder. "I really thought this was it."
My throat tightened. "But you're not. You're going to be okay."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red and swollen. "Because of you. Because you brought me here and made me face this."
Her gratitude outshone all those years of resentment. I had spent so long being angry at her choices, frustrated by her inability to get sober on her own. Now, sitting in this car with hope finally within reach, I understood that love had never been the missing piece. Love had been there all along, even when it felt buried under disappointment and exhaustion.
"We're going to get through this together," I told her. "All of us."
She squeezed my hands. "You have a good life here, Sadie. A real family. Don't let my mess ruin what you've built."
I wanted to remind her that none of this was her fault, that my marriage to Harrison had started as an arrangement anyway. But looking at her tear-stained face, I realized she saw more than I had given her credit for. She saw the way Harrison and I moved around each other in the kitchen, the small gestures of care that had developed between us, the way Eloise had brought us all together into something that felt remarkably close to love.
When we finally walked into the house, the smells of garlic and herbs greeted us. I could hear Harrison's voice from the kitchen, patient and encouraging as he guided Eloise through some cooking task. The normalcy of it made my chest feel full and tight at the same time.
"There you are," Harrison said when we appeared in the doorway. He wore an apron over his button-down shirt, and there was a smudge of flour on his cheek. Eloise stood on a step stool beside him, carefully stirring something in a large pot.
"How did it go?" he asked, studying my face.
"Good news," I said and watched relief flood his features. "Really good news."
During dinner, we shared the details of Dr. White's report. Harrison asked thoughtful questions about the treatment plan and follow-up schedule. He spoke to my mother with the same respectful attention, never talking down to her or treating her recovery as fragile.
Then Eloise, in that direct way children have of cutting straight to the heart of things, looked at my mother and said, "So, you're going to be okay, Grandma?"
My mother's eyes filled again, but this time with joy instead of fear. She reached across the table to take Eloise's small hand in hers.
"Yes, sweetheart. Grandma's going to be just fine."
I felt tears prick my own eyes. Eloise had never had true grandparents, and my mother would never have had the chance to be the grandmother she was if alcohol stole more from us. Watching them together, I saw possibilities I had never dared to imagine.
Harrison's eyes met mine across the table. He looked as moved as I felt, and for a moment the careful boundaries we had maintained seemed to dissolve entirely. This felt real. This felt permanent in ways our legal arrangement never had.
After dinner, Eloise took my mother by the hand and led her to the living room to tell her about her current favorite book. Their voices drifted back to us as Harrison and I began clearing the table together.
We moved in comfortable rhythm, gathering plates and glasses, scraping leftovers into containers. Our hands brushed when we both reached for the salt and pepper shakers at the same time. Instead of pulling away with the polite apology that had become our habit, we both froze.
His fingers were warm against mine. The simple contact sent electricity up my arm and straight to my chest. When I looked up, his pale gray eyes were fixed on my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
Neither of us moved. The kitchen faded around us until there was only this moment, this connection, this recognition of all the careful distance we had been maintaining.
Then nausea hit me with sudden force. The room tilted sideways, and I felt saliva flood my mouth. I bolted for the master bathroom, barely making it before my dinner came back up in violent waves.
I knelt on the cold tile floor, gripping the porcelain bowl, trying to catch my breath between retches. This was the third time this week. The third time I had pretended it was stress or bad food or anything other than the truth I refused to acknowledge.
A soft knock interrupted my misery. "Sadie? Can I come in?"
It was my mother's voice, gentle and concerned. I managed to croak out a yes, and she slipped into the small bathroom, closing the door behind her.
