Page 63 of Campaign Season
"Tell him to hurry up if he wants chocolate chips," Michelle said. "Mom only has one package."
Marianne rolled her eyes. "I'll make sure he knows what's at stake."
Upstairs, the old farmhouse was hushed. The muffled sounds of children’s laughter and clattering pans drifted faintly through the floorboards, a reminder of the life gathered below.
Marianne pushed the bedroom door open gently, careful not to wake him if he was still sleeping. The dim light through the curtains lay soft across the quilt, the room heavy with the stillness of early morning.
“Dad?” she whispered.
He didn’t stir.
She stepped closer, her eyes on the steady rise and fall she expected but couldn’t find. The silence pressed in—so different from the noise downstairs, so final.
Her hand trembled as she reached for his arm. Cool. Still.
“Dad…”
Her voice broke, no louder than a breath.
From below, a burst of laughter carried upward—Cooper’s squeal, Spencer’s answering shout, the sound of life still rushing forward. Marianne stood rooted in the quiet, the two worlds colliding in her chest: the fullness of family gathered and the sudden hollow where her father had been.
"Oh, Dad," she whispered, caressing his forehead.
Marianne closed the bedroom door softly behind her, her hand lingering on the knob a moment longer than necessary. She drew in a shaky breath, steadying herself, then moved down the stairs. Each step carried her closer to the sound of children laughing in the family room, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the hum of life that suddenly felt too loud.
Candace stood at the counter, pouring batter into the skillet, Jameson beside her, rinsing a mixing bowl. Candace turned at the faint scuff of Marianne’s shoes on the floor.
One look. That was all it took.
Candace’s eyes caught the sheen in her daughter’s, the pale tightness around her mouth. It was a look Candace knew because she'd worn it herself. They had shared that long night at Rick’s bedside, holding vigil as life slipped away. That grief had carved something permanent between them, and now it flickered back, raw and immediate.
Marianne shook her head.
Candace set the skillet aside without a word. Her hand brushed against Jameson’s briefly, a silent pause, before she moved to meet Marianne halfway across the kitchen.
“Mom…” Marianne’s voice cracked.
Candace pulled in a deep breath, her chest tightening, and gave a single nod. She wrapped an arm around her daughter, steadying them both.
The room stilled—the laughter from the next room still spilling in, unknowingly, while here in the kitchen, the air shifted. Candace closed her eyes for just a moment, drawing on the strength she would need for what came next.
“Your dad’s gone,” she said quietly, her voice steady but threaded with sorrow.
The words settled into the silence, the kind of truth that changed everything, even as the sound of children’s voices carried on.
Jonah sprang to his feet. Jameson caught his arm gently. “Jonah,” she whispered.
“He was fine last night,” Jonah said. “Are you sure?” he asked Marianne.
A sad smile was her only reply.
Candace drew in a breath and turned to Jameson. “We need to call hospice.”
“They’re in Connecticut,” Jonah said.
“Your father made arrangements when we planned this week,” Candace explained.
“He knew?” Michelle asked.
