Jordan always meant what he said to Emma.
His family, he was learning, treated promises differently.
Two weeks earlier, he had texted the family group chat with the surgery date.
He had kept the message polite, almost painfully polite.
Emma was scared.
Anyone who could visit, send a note, or record a little message for her would mean the world.
No one replied.
A week later, he sent the hospital time and address.
Nothing.
The night before surgery, after Emma had fallen asleep with her injured arm propped on a pillow, he sent one final message asking them to keep her in their thoughts.
Still nothing.
His parents lived forty minutes away.
His brother Caleb lived in the finished guesthouse behind their house because he was, as his mother liked to say, between things.
Caleb had been between things for most of his adult life.
Between jobs.
Between launches.
Between opportunities.
Between other people’s money and the next disaster.
Jordan had stopped expecting much from them, but some small, foolish part of him had hoped Emma would be different.
Children were supposed to soften people.
A hospital was supposed to matter.
Instead, he sat alone.
Jordan had been a single father since Emma was a toddler.
Her mother, Claire, had not stormed out.
She had faded.
First she missed bedtime.
Then parent-teacher night.
Then whole weekends.
