Page 83 of Pucking the Single Dad
I backed away until the counter caught me, gripping the edge hard enough to leave marks. In my mind, Sarah stood where I was standing, would have grabbed the right medication instantly, wouldn't have frozen while her son suffocated.
Her son.
Not mine. Never mine. I was just the substitute who'd nearly administered a fatal dose to a child who trusted me.
"She had this sixth sense," Brad had told me once about Sarah. "Like she could feel Finn's attacks coming before they started."
And here I was, six weeks pregnant with a baby who might face the same respiratory challenges, proving I couldn't handle the one we already had.
Brad glanced at me then, finally registering my statue impression by the sink.
"Hey." His hand covered mine. "You okay?"
"I almost killed him."
"You grabbed the wrong vial. You didn't administer it."
"But I almost—"
"Almost is why we double-check. Always." His voice carried no judgment, just exhaustion. "Seven years of this, and I still verify every dose."
But he'd never frozen. Never stood there like a deer in headlights while his child suffocated. The pregnancy hormones were already scrambling my brain, and this was just the beginning. What would happen with a newborn and a seven-year-old both needing immediate care?
"I need air," I managed, pulling away.
"Serena—"
"Just check on Finn."
I escaped to the deck, the morning air sharp enough to cut. Inside, Brad murmured to Finn, their routine as choreographed as any play he'd ever run. They didn't need me. Worse, I was a liability.
That evening, Brad laid out his gear like a soldier preparing for war—tape, guards, pads arranged with surgical precision while I watched from the doorway, my secret growing heavier with each breath. He moved through his ritual: proteinshake at 4:15, visualization at 4:30, equipment check at 4:45. The machinery of routine that would carry him through one last battle.
"I can't do this."
The words escaped like criminals, surprising us both. Brad's hands stilled on his elbow pads, his reflection in the bedroom mirror meeting my eyes.
"Can't do what? Watch the game? Finn's already—"
"This." My gesture encompassed everything—the nebulizer charging on Finn's nightstand, the medication schedule taped to the fridge, the family photos where Sarah smiled eternally. "I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
Brad turned slowly, favoring the knee that looked like abstract art under the skin. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I almost gave him Pulmicort instead of Albuterol. After months of practice, charts, color-coding—I grabbed purple instead of blue. Purple, Brad. The maintenance dose during acute bronchospasm. That's not a mistake, that's negligence."
"You caught yourself—"
"Sarah wouldn't have needed to catch herself!" The name detonated between us. "Sarah knew by the sound of his cough which medication he needed. You told me that. Tuesday, you literally said 'Sarah could diagnose him from two rooms away.'"
His jaw clenched, that muscle that jumped when he was fighting not to explode. "Don't."
"Don't what? State facts? I'm not her. I'm the understudy who can't remember her lines when the curtain goes up."
"Stop it."
"Your son needs someone who doesn't freeze when he can't breathe. Someone whose hands don't shake when—"
"Someone who stays." His voice went deadly quiet, more terrifying than yelling. "He needs someone who fucking stays."
