Page 36 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Wren’s mother was already gone from this world by the time the ambulance got her to the hospital.

She just… died. Just like that. No warning. No reason to even suspect that she might not be long for this world. She’d thought she was perfectly healthy, and so I’d believed it to. She’d had no idea there was a minuscule hole in her heart that was waiting to claim her life.

And I knew that I needed to have Wren checked for the same condition, but the last time I brought her to the pediatrician, I was told that she’s still too small for them to be able to tell if something could be truly wrong. I was warned that it might develop later in life, perhaps when she’s a teenager, if she’s cursed to inherit the ailment in the first place.

I wanted to seek a second opinion, but then work got in the way. And Wren seemed fine. Better than fine. She was energetic and lively and loud.

Then again, her mother had been that way, too.

Just when I’m sure that I’m about to break down into tears, a nurse finally approaches me. Her expression is kind and devoid of panic, which could be indicative of good news or nothing more than a perfect poker face.

“Mr. Sterling?”

I rush to her, my heart in my throat. “How is she? Is she okay?”

“She’s going to be fine,” the nurse says, her smile automatic and softly reassuring. “The doctor says she was very dehydrated—that’s all. We’ve given her fluids, and she’s already perking up.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me. “Dehydrated? But I swear she was drinking plenty…”

“It happens more often than you’d think,” she says. “Kids get so caught up in playing that they forget to drink water, and it’s especially common when we have these warm, sunny days. Make sure she stays hydrated, and she’ll be good as new. We’ll send you home with some more thorough instructions and recommendations, too.”

I nod, barely registering her words as she leads me down a hallway. I resist the urge to start running, knowing that it’s more efficient to follow the nurse than it is to start bursting into every room I pass by in hopes of seeing my daughter.

At last, I’m brought to the room they’re holding her in.

“Daddy,” Wren says softly, her voice a little stronger now.

I move to sit beside her bed, brushing her curls back from her face. “Hey, kiddo. You scared me back there.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking sheepish. “They said I didn’t drink enough water.”

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice thick. “It’s my fault, honey. I should have been paying better attention.”

She shrugs, as if she doesn’t think it’s necessary to place blame. So wise, even at her age.

I stay by her side until she’s cleared for discharge. It’s an effort not to hate myself for this, for being so careless that I wasn’t thinking about whether Wren was hydrating adequately while she was running around under the hot sun. I’d thought of everything else. Sunscreen and appropriate footwear. A balanced breakfast.

I guess it’s just another thing that I’ve failed at.

Wren is drowsy but alert as I carry her back to the car, her arms wrapped around my neck. The sun is beginning to set as we cross the parking lot, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Wren is excited to know that one of the ways she’s been instructed to rehydrate is via popsicles and ginger ale. The ensuing sugar rush is going to take all my strength to handle.

And then, as if the universe isn’t done placing roadblocks in my path, that’s when I see her.

Alina.

She’s leaning against a car a few spaces away, looking down at her phone. Hearing my footsteps in the fairly deserted lot, she glances up. Her expression is colored with confusion as her gaze flickers between me and Wren.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t have a snappy response.

“MRI,” she answers simply.

“For your hands?”

She nods, shoving her phone in her pocket.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions.

---