In recovery, Emma woke with heavy eyes and dry lips.
The first thing she did was search for him.
When she found him sitting beside her bed with Marvin in his lap, her face softened.
Then she looked past him.
‘Did Grandma come?’
Jordan felt the question settle in his chest like a stone.
He brushed damp hair from her forehead.
‘Not today, sweetheart.’
Emma blinked slowly.
She was six, but she had already learned how to protect adults from her disappointment.
‘Maybe she’s getting me a bigger balloon,’ she whispered.
Jordan smiled because Emma needed him to smile.
Inside, something broke.
He brought her home that evening and slept on the floor beside her bed, one hand resting on the mattress so she could find him in the dark.
Twice she woke in pain.
Twice her fingers closed around his before her eyes opened.
His mother did not call.
His father did not call.
Caleb posted a photo the next afternoon from a tailor’s showroom.
Champagne glasses sparkled on a small table.
Caleb wore polished shoes and an unfinished suit jacket, grinning at himself in the mirror.
His caption read: Big week.
Big moves.
Jordan stared at the picture for five seconds, then put the phone down before anger made him careless.
On the third day after surgery, he was helping Emma eat applesauce while arguing with an insurance portal on his laptop.
Emma was tucked under a blanket on the couch, her bandaged arm balanced on a pillow.
Marvin was wedged beside her shoulder like
a tiny guard.
Jordan’s phone buzzed.
Dad.
For one humiliating second, hope lifted in him.
Maybe his father had finally remembered.
Maybe guilt had arrived late but arrived.
It was only a text.
Can you send $4,000 today? Caleb’s wedding suit balance is due.
We’re stretched after covering vendors.
Jordan read it once.
Then again.
There was no question about Emma.
No apology.
No mention of the surgery.
