chapter 34

THEA

The cab ride is a blur. I don’t care that Sebastian is beside me, his thigh brushing mine every time we take a turn. I don’t care that my hands won’t stop shaking or that I can feel him glancing at me like I’ll shatter at any second.

Let him watch. I’ve shattered before. This time, I’ll burn.

The moment the cab jerks to a stop outside the hospital, I fling the door open before the engine fully dies. Gravel crunches beneath my heels as I run, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped animal.

Sebastian calls out behind me, “Thea—wait—”

“Which ward?!” I spin around, my voice ragged and wild. “Tell me where he is!”

He stumbles to a stop, panting. “Pediatric Ward 3C. End of the hall.”

I don’t wait for more.

I sprint through the glass doors, past the reception desk where someone tries to call out a greeting. The walls blur. The antiseptic smell hits me like a wave, dragging memories I don’t have time to process.

Ward 3C. End of the hall.

I slam into the ward doors and they swing open too slowly for how fast I’m going. My heels scream against the floor as I skid down the corridor, almost falling on my face.

And then—I see him.

Tiny. Pale. Hooked to machines too big for his small frame.

My baby.

My knees almost buckle, but I don’t fall. Not yet.

I reach him, breath hitching, heart breaking in real time. His eyelids flutter, like he’s trying to wake but can’t. There’s a nurse nearby, checking his IV, a doctor holding a tablet beside her.

“Is he okay? Is he…” My voice cracks.

The doctor glances at me gently. “Are you the mother?”

“Yes. Yes—I’m his mother. I’m Thea Carlisle. I—” I can’t finish. My throat tightens, and for a second, I can’t breathe.

She nods. “We’ve stabilized him. But he’s weak. The transfusion needs to happen as soon as possible.”

“What happened to him exactly?”

“He fell at school.” Sebastian says behind me, sounding breathless.

“And it was not taken care of because it was deemed non severe and It caused internal bleeding. A transfusion is urgent.” The doctor adds calmly.

He fell at school. The words barely register over the roar in my ears.

How the hell will Sebastian overlook something like internal bleeding in a child?

I spare him another glance.

He looks like he's sleeping. Like he's five again, curled under dinosaur blanket after a long day. But there are tubes. Monitors. The beeping is too steady to be safe.

“I’m a match.” My voice is steel now. “Take my blood. Take all of it if you have to.”

“Sure.” She says, sparing Finn a last glance before walking towards me. “But there are some bills that need to be footed before then.”

My jaw clenches. You'd think I'd be used to bureaucracy by now, but the idea that money could ever come between my son and his life—

“I'll pay.” I say.

.

.

.

The transfusion is done.

I feel like a threadbare version of myself—drained, dizzy, hollow—but I’m not leaving this hospital room until I’ve held my son. Until I’ve looked him in the eyes and let him see that I’m here. That when he calls, I'll always come running.

Finn’s awake now, propped up with pillows that look too big for his small body. His skin’s still pale, lips chapped, and there’s a fragile kind of stillness in the way he sits—like he’s learned not to take up too much space.

That alone makes my chest cave in.

He sees me and smiles, faint but real. “Mommy.”

The word stings and soothes in equal measure.

I sit at the edge of the bed, ignoring the IV sting in my arm and the nurse’s warnings to rest. I don’t need rest. I need to be with my child.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You scared me half to death.”

God. I missed him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, eyes dropping.

“No, no, no.” I lean closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

He nods, but it’s small. Hesitant. There’s something else sitting in his little chest, something bigger than any child should be carrying.

“Finn?” I ask softly. “What is it?”

He looks up at me with those huge eyes—Sebastian’s shape, my softness—and my heart twists.

“Can I come with you? To your new house?”

The question knocks the breath out of me.

“I—I don’t know if your daddy will let you—” I start, but he cuts me off with something I wasn’t ready to hear.

“I know. I've already asked him, but he said no unless I want to be left alone while you go to work.”

My brows pinch. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

He fidgets with the blanket, eyes focused on a loose thread. “Like you left me. And Daddy. Before you brought Mommy Claire.”

It’s a slap to the face.

I try to breathe through it, but the air feels harsh.

Mommy Claire.

That’s what he calls her now.

My throat tightens. “Finn… Mommy Claire isn’t—”

“I know,” he says quickly, almost guiltily. “I know she’s not my real mommy. But that’s what Daddy says to call her. And I don’t want her to be sad.”

And just like that, a sob claws at my throat.

He’s protecting her feelings. At seven years old. While sitting in a hospital bed after a blood transfusion.

I want to scream. I want to walk out of this room and find Sebastian and Claire and ask them what the hell they think they’re doing—turning my child into an emotional adult in a house full of grown children.

Instead, I swallow the sob and say gently, “You don’t have to call anyone Mommy unless you want to.”

“But she gets mad,” he whispers.

I go still.

“Not yell-mad. But quiet-mad. Like when she stopped giving me cookies.”

I blink. “What?”

“She always gave me cookies when Daddy was watching football. But now, when I ask, she says, ‘Cookies aren’t for boys who talk back.’” His voice trembles. “I didn’t talk back, Mommy. I only said I missed you.”

Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.

I reach for him and wrap him in my arms, careful not to press too hard against the IV in his tiny hand. He melts into me, small and warm and heartbreakingly light.

He smells like hospital soap and bandages and the faint, familiar scent of his shampoo, the one I used to buy for him because it smelled like strawberries and he said it made him feel “cool.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper against his hair. “You’re perfect. You hear me? You are my perfect little boy.”

His voice is muffled against my shoulder. “Daddy doesn’t take me to the park anymore either.”

“Why not?”

“He says we have to save money for my sister. But I don’t see her. I think she’s still in Mommy Claire’s belly.”

A deep, cold ache takes root in my stomach.

He’s being replaced before he’s even old enough to understand what that means. He’s being made small. Quiet. Careful. Palatable. Like he’s taking up too much space in the new family they’re building over the ruins of ours.

I pull back enough to cup his cheek. “Do you want to come stay with me?”

His eyes light up. “Can I?”

“You can,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You always can.” 

“Will you leave me again?” he asks, barely audible.

I shake my head, tears finally slipping free. “Never. Not again. I swear it.”

“Okay mommy.”

I rub his cheek with my finger before pulling back. My eyes search his eyes as I force a smile, a contrast to the anger brewing inside me.

“You should take a rest, okay? Mommy will be back.”

He nods.

I gently tuck him in and stay with him until he dozes off before I stand up, smoothen the wrinkles on my skirt, and storm out to meet him.