Page 42 of Open Secrets
Chapter Thirteen
Lyle — Present
The next morning feels almost… eerie.
I’m up early, moving through the kitchen, lining up lunchboxes and frying eggs, pouring cereal for the ones who’ll only eat that. The kids sense it—hell, they’d have to be blind not to. The air’s thick, heavier than usual, and none of them make a fuss.
Rain doesn’t cry when I mess up her hair, even though she usually does. August eats his toast without a single complaint about crusts. And Remi and Taylor—God help me—actually work together to clear the table instead of sniping at each other.They’re quiet, efficient, like they’re all part of some unspoken pact: don’t poke at the tension between Mom and Dad.
By the time the bus pulls away, the house feels still. The kind of stillness before a storm.
I’m wiping down the counter when Maria finally makes her way downstairs. She’s dragging her feet, hair messy, moving straight to the table like gravity itself doubled overnight. She drops into a chair and rubs her temple, muttering, “How come my head doesn’t hurt?”
I can’t help the small smile. “Probably the water I made you drink before bed.”
Her brows knit, like she’s trying to place it. She nods once. “Thought I imagined that.”
“You didn’t.” I set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her, then sit across from her. My voice comes out steady, firm. “You didn’t imagine promising to tell me everything either.”
Maria freezes mid-sip, mug hovering just shy of her lips. The face she makes is damn near identical to the one Remi made earlier when I asked him to help with Rain’s hair—caught, cornered, guilty.
“Do I have to?” she mutters, almost childlike.
“Yes.” My answer leaves no room for argument. I lean forward, clasping my hands together on the table. “I already called Debra. She’s bringing in a fill-in, so you can stay home. And I took the day off too.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wary, guarded.
“We’re doing this,” I tell her.
She finishes her cup in silence, not rushing, not looking at me. By the time it’s empty, her shoulders drop like she’s finally settled on something.
“What do you want to know?”
I lean forward, heart in my throat. “What happened after I left. That day at the hospital—things were fine, we had a plan, and then…” My voice falters. “What happened, Maria?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicks toward the window, like maybe she’ll find a way out there. Then, slowly, she turns back to me, her face pale and tired.
“Remember how the doctor said AML wasn’t that common in children, so the treatment might be harsher for her? Well, he wasn’t kidding. After you left, it was like…” She swallows hard. “…like the treatment was attackingherinstead of the cancer.”
Her voice lowers, breaking in places.
“She wouldn’t eat or drink for days because it hurt too much—her mouth was covered in sores. Her hair started coming out in clumps on her pillow. She couldn’t stop vomiting, couldn’t even keep water down. I took her to the ER twice just to get a drip in her because she was wasting away in front of me. She’d cry, but she was too weak to even make noise sometimes. Just tears rolling down her face while I begged her to sip Pedialyte or broth. And when she finally slept, it was only because they knocked her out with meds. That was her life. And mine. For months.”
Maria’s hands knot together, knuckles white. “I thought it was supposed to save her, Lyle. But every day I watched her fade. I think the doctor got tired of it, and God knows I did too, because finally—”
Her voice shifts, flat and haunted, like the memory is taking her back against her will.
Maria — Austin, 2021
“But you said chemo was her best shot,” I told Dr. Strand, my voice shaking, loud for the sterile little consultation room.
He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me calmly, like he had been trained for this—for mothers unravelling across a desk. Maybe I was one. Anyone would be, if they had to watch the thing meant to save their child kill her instead.
“I’ve reviewed Rain’s latest scans,” he said carefully, every syllable controlled. “And I think it’s time to stop the chemotherapy.”
For a moment, I just stared at him. The words didn’t land. Didn’t compute. “Stop? What do you mean, stop?”
His eyes softened, but his voice stayed maddeningly steady. “The chemo isn’t working the way we hoped. It’s breaking her body down faster than it’s fighting the leukaemia. At this point, continuing would do more harm than good.”
