Page 45 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
"Hi, sweetheart." Her voice carried that artificial brightness she'd perfected since the diagnosis, the tone that meant she was about to deliver news she didn't want to share. "I have some updates about my treatment."
My stomach clenched. I pressed my back against the kitchen island, needing the solid marble to anchor me. "What kind of updates?"
"Well, it seems my white blood cells decided to stage a rebellion. My count has dropped significantly, so Dr. Patel wants to switch me to a different chemo regimen." The forced cheer in her voice made my throat tighten. "The new cocktail is more aggressive—her words, not mine—but she believes it will be more effective against this particular beast."
I closed my eyes, processing the medical terminology she delivered with the same casual tone she might use to discuss dinner plans. More aggressive meant more side effects. More risk. More everything.
"The one downside," she continued, "is that what's left of this glamorous mane of mine is going to abandon ship completely. I was hoping you could help me take control of the situation and shave it off before it starts falling out in clumps all over my pillow. You know how I hate a mess."
The request felt like a knife in my heart. She wanted me there for this milestone, this surrender to the disease, and I couldn't go. The fever that had kept me home with the kids suddenly felt selfish and insignificant.
"Mom, I want to be there, but?—"
"I know, honey. Your father told me you and the children are sick. We can't risk exposing me to anything right now, not with my immune system compromised." Her understanding made it worse somehow. "But maybe in a few days when everyone's feeling better? I'd rather wait for you than do it alone."
"Of course. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."
We spent another ten minutes discussing the new treatment schedule, her attempts at humor about shopping for colorful head scarves falling flat in the space between us. When I finally hung up, I stood there staring at her photo on my phone screen, trying to wrap my mind around how much worse this situation kept getting.
"That was your mother?"
Dad's voice cut through my thoughts. He stood in the kitchen doorway, still wearing the clothes he'd put on for his morning hospital visit—pressed khakis and a navy polo that somehow managed to look formal on his tall frame. His silver hair was perfectly combed despite spending hours in waiting rooms, and his expression revealed nothing, which meant everything.
"Yes, it was."
"She needs you there, Ivy. Not here hiding behind whatever game you're playing."
Heat flashed through my chest. "I'm not playing any games. The kids and I have been sick, and I can't risk exposing her to whatever virus we've been fighting."
"The kids." He said the words with particular emphasis, each syllable loaded with suspicion and barely contained frustration. "Speaking of which, don't you think it's time we had an honest conversation about who their father is?"
My throat closed. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too bright, too exposed. "Dad?—"
"Because I've been thinking about it, Ivy. A lot. And I have some theories about why you've been so secretive, why you ran away four years ago, why you've never named him." His eyes were cold, the same color as mine but harder, calculating. "I don't appreciate being lied to in my own home, especially not when your mother is fighting for her life."
I gripped the counter behind me, the marble edge cutting into my palms. "I need to get the kids ready for their baths."
"Ivy."
The warning in his voice was clear, but I was already moving, calling upstairs for Sammy, Chrissy, and Elena. Their response was immediate and chaotic—thundering footsteps across the hardwood floors, Elena's voice calling out that she couldn't find her favorite pajamas, Chrissy's delighted shriek as she chased after something.
They tumbled down the stairs in a tangle of limbs and energy, Elena's auburn hair matching mine but wilder, escaping from the ponytail I'd put in that morning. Chrissy clutched her worn stuffed elephant, the one she'd had since she could hold her head up, while Sammy bounced on the bottom step, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles.
"Bath time, babies," I announced, herding them back toward the staircase and using their excited chatter as a shield against Dad's interrogation. I could feel his stare burning into my back as we climbed the stairs, but I refused to turn around.
The upstairs bathroom filled with steam and the sound of running water as I adjusted the temperature and added bubble bath. Elena immediately began constructing elaborate foam sculptures while Sammy and Chrissy engaged in their nightly battle over the rubber duck that had somehow become the most coveted bath toy despite the basket of alternatives.
"Mama, look!" Elena held up a handful of bubbles shaped vaguely into a star. "It's magic!"
"Very magical," I agreed, settling onto the closed toilet seat to supervise their splashing. Their joy was infectious despite everything weighing on my mind, and for a few minutes I could almost forget about Mom's new treatment protocol and Dad's mounting suspicions.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out, halfway expecting it to be Duncan checking in. Though it was Saturday and I hadn't missed work due to the fever, I'd grown accustomed to him reaching out every evening to say hello. When I saw it was Lauren I unlocked my phone and read her message.
Lauren: 7:47 PM: How's the fever? You sounded pretty rough this morning when I called.
I glanced at the kids, who were now absorbed in an elaborate game involving toy boats and imaginary storms, then typed back.
Ivy: 7:48 PM: Much better. Kids are finally acting human again too.
