Chapter 4: Lauren Calls
He didn't answer it.
The phone buzzed twice more, then went silent.
My father set it face-down on the chair without a word.
"She'll keep calling," my mother said.
"Let her," I said.
My mother looked at me.
Something shifted in her expression — not quite hurt, not quite surprise.
Something older than both.
"You've been carrying this for a long time," she said.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
I looked at the IV line running into my arm.
The monitor beside the bed blinked its steady green pulse.
"I did," I said.
"You just didn't hear it."
My father picked up the phone again.
Not to call Lauren back — to read something.
His eyes moved quickly across the screen.
"She saw the estate notification," he said.
My mother's head turned sharply.
"How?"
"She's still listed on my shared account.
The email preview—" He stopped.
"She's asking what forty-three million means."
The monitor beeped.
"She's on her way," he said.
Julian, who had been standing quietly near the door, glanced at me.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asked.
"Please."
My father set the phone down.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and for a moment he looked genuinely old — not the composed, golf-club version of himself I had grown up watching, but something smaller and more tired.
"Miranda," he said.
"Before she gets here.
I want you to hear something."
"All right."
"I know we failed you tonight.
I know it wasn't only tonight." He paused.
"But I also know that what you've built — your company, your career, everything you've accomplished — you did that because of who you are.
Not because of anything we gave you or didn't give you."
"That's true," I said.
"Then you know you're strong enough to step back from this.
To not make a permanent decision based on one terrible night."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"The decision isn't based on tonight," I said.
"Tonight was just when I finally had enough quiet to make it."
He sat back.
The door opened.
Lauren was still in the clothes she'd been wearing in the video — a cream linen shirt, dark jeans, her hair pulled back.
She looked like she'd driven the whole way from Ridgefield without stopping.
Her eyes went to Julian first, then to the briefcase, then to me.
"What did you do?" she said.
Not to our parents.
To me.
"Hello, Lauren," I said.
"Don't." She stepped into the room.
"Don't do the calm voice with me.
Mom texted me.
I saw the number.
I want to know what you did."
"I updated my estate documents."
"You removed me." Her voice cracked on the last word.
"You removed me completely.
Why would you do that?
What did I do?"
My mother stood up.
"Lauren, sit down.
This isn't—"
"I'm not sitting down." Lauren's eyes were bright.
"She was in the hospital.
She called us.
I know, okay?
I know we should have come sooner.
But I didn't think — I didn't know it was that serious, and now she's punishing me by taking everything away and I want to know why."
The room was silent except for the monitor.
"You didn't think it was serious," I said quietly.
"Miranda—"
"I was in surgery, Lauren.
A truck ran a red light and hit my car at forty miles an hour.
The doctor used the words critical and twenty-four hours in the same sentence.
And you posted a video."
Lauren's mouth opened.
"You posted a video of Mom and Dad helping you arrange throw pillows," I said.
"And you tagged it: Couldn't have done today without them."
The color drained from Lauren's face.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"You didn't ask."
She sat down then.
Not in the chair — on the edge of the bed, near the foot, as far from me as the mattress allowed.
She pressed both hands flat against her knees.
"I'll fix it," she said.
"Whatever you need me to do.
I'll fix it."
"Lauren." I kept my voice even.
"There's nothing to fix tonight."
She looked up.
Her eyes searched my face for the version of me that would soften, that would reach out, that would say it was all right.
She didn't find it.
"Then when?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
My father's phone buzzed again.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
"It's not Lauren this time," he said slowly.
"It's Thomas."
May you like
Lauren's husband.
And from the look on my father's face, Thomas already knew everything.
