Page 45 of The One Who Changed Everything

She grabbed a hoodie off the back of her chair and slipped it on before bounding past me into the hallway. "Mom, I’m walking Dad out!"

"Don’t take too long," Sam called back.

Sophia grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door. "Come on."

We stepped outside, the night air cool and still.

Sophia swung our joined hands between us. "Are you coming over tomorrow?"

I glanced down at her, my chest tightening. "I don’t know. Would you want me to?"

She gave me an exasperated look. "Obviously."

I swallowed, nodding. "Then I’ll try."

She turned to me suddenly, her brown eyes wide and searching. "Why aren't you and Mom together?" The question hung between us, innocent and heavy all at once.

I paused, the words stalling in my throat as I searched for the right way to explain the complexities of adult relationships to a young heart. The crickets chirped their nightly serenade, providing a gentle soundtrack to my internal struggle.

"Life's... complicated, Soph," I began slowly, choosing each word with care. "Sometimes people need different things, or they change, and it doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other, or about you."

Sophia pondered that, her brows furrowing as she considered my words. "But you're still friends, right?"

"Absolutely," I assured her, my heart swelling at her hopeful expression. "And no matter what happens between your mom and me, I'm always going to be here for you. That's a promise."

Her smile was all the reward I needed, and she threw her arms around my neck in a hug that squeezed the breath from my lungs. The simple joy of her embrace grounded me, solidifying my commitment to her and the complicated dance of co-parenting with Samantha.

"Thanks, Dad," she whispered, and it was like music to my ears.

"Anytime, baby girl." My words were barely audible, whispered into the dusk. I wanted to tell her everything, to pour out the torrent of feelings for her mother that I kept dammed up behind a carefully constructed wall. But fear held me back—the fear of reaching out only to have those feelings slip through my fingers like smoke. And the knowledge that Sophia couldn’t be the one I shared those feelings with.

That answer seemed to satisfy her, because she gave my hand one last squeeze before letting go. "Good night."

"Good night, kiddo."

She waited until I was at my apartment door before giving a little wave and heading back inside. I stood there for a moment, watching until the door shut behind her.

Then, with a deep breath, I let myself in, shutting the door on the part of me that ached to turn back. I let out a deep sigh, allowing myself that moment to soak in the quiet calm of the evening. My thoughts drifted to Samantha—the way her eyes crinkled when she truly smiled, how she could communicate with Sophia without a single word. My chest ached with the longing to reconnect, to somehow mend what had frayed between us.

I had to have patience, though.

There was something freeing in acknowledging the slow pace of healing, of rebuilding trust. I knew it wasn’t about grand gestures or sweeping declarations—it was the daily effort, the small moments that wove together to create something stronger. That was the kind of dad I was going to be.

CHAPTER 18

Samantha

The letter felt like a brick in my hands, the words "coverage denied" stamped across the top in an unforgiving bold font. My stomach twisted as I read through the paragraphs of sterile, impersonal language explaining why the insurance company had decided my daughter’s quality of life wasn’t worth the cost of an ICD.

My grip tightened, crinkling the edges of the paper as my pulse pounded in my ears. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Sophia needed that device. She deserved it. It wasn’t optional. It was the only thing standing between her and the very real possibility that her heart could stop again just because she dared to do normal teenager activities, like run around in the sunshine.

I sucked in a breath, willing my hands to stop shaking. I didn’t have time to break down. I needed to fix this. There had to be an appeal process. A loophole. Something.

I could ask Evan. The idea flitted across my mind, uninvited and unsettling. He had money, of course—the Mercers were practically their own economy—but pride tightened around my chest like a vise.

Reaching for my phone, I scrolled past missed calls and unread emails until I found the number for the patient advocateI’d been working with. My finger hovered over the call button just as the front door swung open.

"Mom?" Sophia’s voice rang through the apartment, light and cheerful, completely unaware of the storm raging inside me.

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