Chapter 9

Moving On

[Warning : Suicidal ideation]

The cool, pre-dawn wind rushes against my cheeks, rousing me from the numb stupor that brought me up here. Lights below, from windows, street lights, cars, are all wavering blobs. My fingers tighten around the top of the brick half-wall. She's really gone. That thought sinks in as my mask crumbles, my metaphorical armour splinters to dust and a strangled cry squeezes from my throat.

What the hell am I supposed to feel? What the hell am I supposed to do? The glows streak and intersect, a physical representation of the crap inside that churns in a confusing, nauseating whirlpool of things I shouldn't have done, other things I didn't do, but should have.

Another gust bites at me, brings awareness of the wet leaking from my eyes. I can't stop it. Not now. Amber should mock me. It's expected. Almost desired. But she doesn't. Each pocket of light across the roof to the shadowy fringes is vacant. She's gone too. Even my twisted mind won't keep me company.

All I have is the gnawing in my thigh, deadened, but not erased by morphine. Life is pain. The starless sky looms, empty and inviting. And just like Amber said, I'm asking myself if it's worth it any more, if it would be better to just disappear into the blackness. The nothingness. The peace.

My cane clatters to the tarmac. The concrete digs into my palms as I propel myself up the half-wall. I teeter there for a moment, shoes scuffing. It's a long way down. No chance of failure. All I have to do now is tilt and let go.

My eyes close and another drop squeezes out and down my cheek. I draw in a sharp breath, lean forwards.

A metallic creak comes from behind, followed by a shout. Hands catch me, pull me down at the last second.

There's a moment of staring, of shock and hurt, Wilson clutching my arms as the wind smashes us about. "What are you doing, you idiot?"

I gather my fragmented thoughts into a coherent entity and push his hands off. "What right have you got to stop me?"

His eyes are soft, glistening. "You're my friend."

"It's fucking stupid," I say, choking back weakness. "She shouldn't be dead. Not from the IL-2. Maybe fifteen years ago. But not now. And not someone her age."

His silence communicates agreement.

Somewhere inside, I know the truth. But it's buried under a massive pile of shit and I can't dig it out. So I grab the next best thing. My lip curls in a snarl. "This is your fault."

He stumbles back a step as if I've shoved him. "What?"

"If you hadn't been so obsessed with whether or not I was shooting up, you wouldn't have left her in the hands of a bunch of incompetent interns." The words hiss through my teeth. "She'd be alive right now!"

"Oh, right. Lay it all on me." He turns harsh. "Maybe if you knew how to actually talk to the people who care about you, how to ask for help—"

"There was no help!" I cut him off. "The drugs were—I was hallucinating again! I couldn't trust myself!"

He absorbs it for a second, hands tightening into fists, nostrils flaring. "You idiot!" His voice raises to match mine and rings out over the swishes of traffic. "Damn you, you should have told me!"

"I'd be back in a padded room!"

"Yeah, and getting help, you stupid ass!" He presses closer to me. His breaths burst against my face. "It wasn't about your leg! It was about your inability to deal with emotions like a normal human being!"

My nails dig against my palms, every muscle twitching. "And it's not treatable! You can't fix me, dammit! No one can!"

"So your solution was to turn yourself into a lab rat and hack into your own leg in the bathtub! If you didn't force us all to treat you like a self-destructive child, I could've been there for her when it mattered most! Now she's gone and that's on you, not me!"

He's wrong. But I can't argue any more. Any semblance of retaliation is liquefied in my brain. My teeth grind in a clench, his words seeming to hang in the thick night air. I go for my cane, manage to reach down for it.

Wilson stomps over and positions himself between me and the brick half-wall.

"If you're not gonna let me jump, then get the hell out of the way." I nudge him.

He glares for a moment, then moves. "Stay off the roof."

I don't answer. I just limp for the door and leave him behind.

I stop in front of the glass with my name on it, pause for a moment before going in, sitting down at my desk. It's still dark out. The over-sized tennis ball makes a decent diversion, something to roll around for a few minutes, but there's no reason to be here. Footsteps clack near and in a lapse of rationality, part of me believes it'll be her storming in to nag me like she always does.

But that's stupid. It's Cameron and Chase. I set the ball down, get up.

Their faces when they walk through the door are enough to make me want to choke myself on my cane.

"I'm so sorry." Cameron's bottom lip trembles. She comes at me, hugs before I can react.

Awkward. I roll my eyes, arms loose. "How's your patient?" Better to change the topic.

"Parasitoma. She's on metronidazole. She'll be fine." Chase is like a sad puppy, not an ounce of the jealousy he'd once shown for Cameron's warmth towards me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. "I know you're not one to ask," he says, "but... we're here if you need anything, okay? I mean it."

"What I need is to be alone."

Cameron pulls away, looks in my eyes with tears in hers. "Okay." She rubs the escaping wetness away. "But you don't have to be."

Chase resists his clear desire to hug me too.

I can't bring myself to say anything else. The three of us share a few moments of deep stares and uncomfortable silence. Well, it's uncomfortable for me. No idea about them.

"I'm going home," I say finally, then hobble out. They linger behind. Either to let me ride the elevator alone, or because they don't know what to do.

"I'm here to pick up a prescription." I tap my cane against the pharmacy desk.

The pharmacist approaches with a dubious look. "Dr House."

"I need a refill on this." I pull a crumpled prescription paper from the pocket of my jeans and spread it on the counter, smoothing the wrinkles.

He studies it. "I'm sorry. You'll need approval from Dr Foreman."

And just like magic, the neurologist turned administrator swaggers over.

"You're here early," I say to him. "Or is it late? You're not here just for little old me, are you?"

He doesn't answer.

"Wilson's already told you to keep me out of the cookie jar, huh?"

"Yeah." He regards me with condescension as the pharmacist goes to the back and returns to organising the stock.

"Look, I'm sorry."

He's not talking about the pills. It doesn't matter either way. "Don't bother." I turn towards the nurses shuffling by with folders and carts, fidget with my cane. "What a beautiful world we'd live in if being sorry could change anything."

"Take some time off, if that's what you need... or don't, if that's better in your case." He pauses, concern shining through the arrogance. "Just don't be an idiot."

My eyes narrow at him.

"Here." He pulls a bottle from his jacket, passes it to me.

Oxycodone. Five count. Nice. Too few to do much more than take the edge off for another day.

The sun glimmers at the edge of the horizon, sparkling through breaks between the brick buildings as my car comes to a stop at the kerb. Birds sing from the trees and rooftops, stark in the quiet of the still drowsy city. I hobble to my front door while an old man buys a paper from a roadside dispenser up ahead. For millions of people this is just like any other morning. Every detail adds to the surrealism of the aftermath of a storm that the rest of the world has no idea ever happened.

They're on the couch, Rachel across Thirteen's lap. My shoes scuffing on the wood causes the latter to jolt herself awake. Last night was exhausting for her too. I wonder for a second or so if she knows, but it's clear in the pitying gaze thrown my way as she eases Rachel off without disturbing her.

"Wilson sure didn't waste any time spreading the word." I watch her approach, then glance at Rachel, sprawled on the cushion, sleeping without a care in the world."He should enjoy telling her. He's got plenty of experience with crying kids."

"It's gonna be hard for her." Thirteen follows my eyes. "But I'm honestly not sure it's any easier for you."

"I'm a big boy. I'll be fine." I slide my cane upwards, then let it drop, stopping it just short of making a sound. "On the bright side, I can start having hookers over again."

Thirteen squints in disbelief. "You don't mean that."

I don't remark. "You can go. I'll call Julia to get Rachel."

She stays planted in place, tossing a backward glance at the sleeping little girl in question."Are you really okay with that?"

"What, you going home? It's about damn time." I feign ignorance for a moment before speaking again. "Oh, right, you mean Rachel. She's not my problem."

Thirteen turns a harsh eye. "I know you're in pain right now–and I don't just mean your leg—but you can't take it out on her. She needs you and—"

I interrupt."She's got people to take care of her."

"You need her," Thirteen finishes.

Really? What a ridiculous notion. Why the hell would I need a sticky fingered three-year-old? I take a moment to digest her laughable idea. "I'm not gonna be worrying about some kid."

"Some kid?"

"She's not my daughter."

She stirs at our raising voices.

"She's not even Cuddy's daughter, dammit. She's just the product of an unwanted pregnancy that happened because stupid teenagers didn't know how to use a condom."

"House!" Thirteen hisses, motioning with her eyes and the tilt of her head towards Rachel, who's groggily sitting up now, facing me with the most innocuous expression. One that turns my tongue to a rock in my mouth.

"Sorry we woke you, sweetie," Thirteen says, softening and going to her. "You wanna watch TV?" She snatches the remote from the coffee table. "I need to talk to House alone for a bit, okay?"

"Okay." Rachel takes the remote, clicking a button, swinging her legs at the edge of the cushion. The TV comes on and spews out convenient camouflage.

Thirteen slices me with her eyes on the way over. I follow her out. A few paces down the hall, towards the bedroom, we're safely out of earshot.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" she blurts. "You don't have to do this."

My back slams against the wall. "Cuddy's dead."

She's quiet for a moment, before speaking softer."I know."

"She wanted to see her mom and sister. To say goodbye." I clench my cane, squeezing until the pigment leaves my skin.

It happens so fast, I'm not even sure what I'm doing. I whirl around and smash the cane into the book shelf. Wood on wood rings out. "I didn't let her."

Thirteen's a blur in my periphery, watching without flinching.

"I didn't..." Another smash. And another. And another even harder.

Snap.

Half the cane and a chunk of shelf clatters to the floor, books spilling into a pile on top. I swing again with what's left. Splinters fly. More books.

My hand surges with pain. "I didn't tell her..." I huff, voice faltering. "I didn't even tell her I loved her!" My breath hitches in my chest.

Thirteen comes closer. I don't look at her. She pries at my throbbing fingers, easing them off the half-shattered cane handle. I let go, let myself slide down beside the mess.

"She knew," she says after a moment.

"Did she?" I peer up at her. "Because I think that's just one of those useless platitudes people vomit all over you when someone dies."

"There's a reason people do that." Her eyes are glassy. "Cause if we don't... if we don't try to believe it... we'll fall apart."

"Speaking from experience?"

She kneels, then sits on a clear patch of floor beside me. "I avoided my brother, before the end. Barely talked to him. Never visited. Always told myself it was because I was busy." She pauses, looks to the wall across from us. "That was a lie." She releases a deep breath. "I was just scared."

Words don't come to me. Whether related to my own turmoil, or hers.

"But I have to believe he knew I loved him. I have to believe..." She gulps, fighting back tears. "That what I did was the right thing."

The sight stirs something deep within. "It was," I say.

Her eyes thank me.

Neither of us speak for a while, the sound of cartoons echoing from the living room.

She lifts a book by its spine, flaps it closed. "Life sucks. It's not fair. Things happen that don't make sense, things we can't do anything about." Her fingers trace the cover. "We can't change the past. We can't change the stuff we regret." She sets the book beside the heap. "But we can change the future. We can try to stop making more regrets."

"You're suddenly optimistic," I grumble.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and faces me again, eyes drifting down."You've torn your stitches."

I redirect to the unmistakable red seeping through the pale blue pyjama bottoms. Didn't feel it until now.

"Come on." She pulls herself up and extends her hand to me.

"Fine. Patch me up and go home." I take it, let her help me to my feet.

Her eyes meet mine, uncompromising. "I'm not leaving."

Great. Just what I need.

"Let me guess," I say, an arm over her shoulder as we hobble to the bathroom. "Wilson didn't just call to give you the news. He's offered you a new babysitting gig."

"Yeah," she scoffs, bittersweet. Then comes something that catches me off guard. "But that's not why."

I stop moving, stare at her intensely. I want to make a retort. To say I'm touched, full of sarcasm, but I can't. Maybe because on some level, I want her to stay. Maybe it means something to me. Maybe it offers me a scrap of warmth when everything else is cold. Maybe I've been shaken enough to admit that, even if only for a passing moment.

12 May (Three Days Later)

Figures garbed in sombre tones line the pews of the synagogue. I linger at the far back by the door, leaning against the wall to keep the weight off my leg. It's an ambiguous tangle of Jewish tradition and secularism I can't pretend to understand. The rabbi gives a sermon in Hebrew, then all the people who knew her take the stand, one after another, spewing their own trite speeches.

Arlene tells of how Cuddy was always stubborn and driven, how they never got along well, but that she, in her own words, loved Lisa more than she knew. Julia tells how her sister was the smart one, the strong one, the person she admired most in the world.

Foreman tells of how he's grateful to have inherited Cuddy's position, that he learned a lot from her, but that it will never be the same without her running things. Cameron tells of how she was stern and at times unapproachable, but that was what made her tough and able to handle such a stressful job. Chase tells, half-joking, that she scared him most of the time, but that was what he liked about her. Thirteen says simply that it's hard to lose those we love and it can be even harder for us to express that pain.

Around that point, Rachel hustles through the congregation, led by an older girl. One of Julia's kids.

Wilson is last. We still aren't talking. "Lisa was a good friend," he starts, adjusting the mic. "I think she was special to everyone here in their own way. Even those of us who can't come up here, for whatever reason." His gaze slices my way. That's aimed at me, in the worst sort of passive aggression.

"She was stolen from us before her time. Taken from her mother, her sister, her daughter, and..." He pauses, locking eyes with me again in a way that kindles the unspoken tension between us. "All of us," he finishes.

He has no intention of speaking on my behalf. Good. I don't want him to. I shouldn't even be here. This was stupid. It's not going to change anything. I jerk my tie loose, rip the kippah from my head and toss it into the basket on the nearby table.

I turn for the door, exit to the damp greenery of the surrounding yard. The metallic chirps and irritatingly shrill twittering of cardinals in the brush makes an annoying soundtrack to compliment the mocking sun glaring in my face as I pull the bottle from my suit pocket. The pill goes down lumpy.

I hobble to the parking lot, headed for the Dynasty. The gravel crunches under my shoes and the past three days flash through my mind. A combination of oxycodone, alcohol, and not showering until my body odour turned pungent and the untended stubble began to sprout into the wiry thicket it is now.

Nights were spent tossing and turning in a cold sweat, days in the dark, both times my head swirling with the last moments with her. Thirteen was undaunted and guarded her post in my living room like a dutiful watch dog.

Cameron and Chase came a couple of times. I pushed them away. Or maybe the smell did. Foreman called once, to be ignored. Wilson, several times, of course. Didn't answer him either. He didn't come in person.

For some reason, I surrendered to the expected and obligatory performance, cleaning myself up and coming to the funeral. I don't know why. Yeah, she'd want me to. But it doesn't atone for any of my hundreds of failures.

I reach the car. I'm about to open the door when a figure in my periphery comes into focus. Tight skirt, low cut top. Completely inappropriate for this occasion. She leans against the Dynasty, regarding me with some combination of sorrow and sympathy as my brain registers the visual input in front of me. It's not possible.

"How... how are you here?" I want to reach out and touch her, but I don't. "You're not real."

"Of course, I'm real, House," Cuddy says. "What are you taking about?"

I can't speak for a few minutes, staring blankly, going over all the possibilities. Did I imagine it all? Was it just a long nightmare? Maybe this wasn't her funeral. Maybe she was never even sick.

"Let's go for a walk." She grabs my hand and tugs me away from the car, in the direction of the adjoining cemetery.

It's all too easy, but I don't care. I don't care if it doesn't make sense, if I'm losing my mind. Whatever reality is, this is the one that matters. The one I want. And I'm going to have it.

She leads me off the gravel and through the meadow of fluffy, seeding dandelions. The grass rustles under our movement. The songs of the birds don't seem annoying any more. After a bit, she lets go of my hand and takes a few steps ahead to lean down and pick one of the flowers. This so unlike her, but it doesn't matter. She's here.

"I'm sorry," I say.

With a breath, she sends the white fuzz off on the breeze, then turns to me, quiet for a moment. "For what?"

I shift my cane on the soft ground. "For everything."

She drops the flowerless stalk.

"It was just... it was so stupid. It wasn't supposed to happen like that." I glance over the moss-covered brick fence at our flank, to the sea of headstones. "And I was afraid."

She stands, closes the gap between us again. "Me too."

"I love you." I grab her hand and squeeze it. "I've always loved you. I should've told you more... I should've done a lot of things. I wanna change that now."

She watches me with grim intensity for a couple of seconds. "You won't leave me, will you?"

It takes a moment to process. The rational part of my brain sends alarm signals. What does she mean? It's like we're having two different conversations. I tell it to shut up. It doesn't matter. "No," I answer, half-confused.

"Promise?" she asks.

The puzzle pieces lock together in my mind. I know what this is. I know, but I can't let it out. I don't want to. Because then it will all collapse in on itself, this fabrication of mine. And I'll lose her again. I'll lose the chance to make it right.

"I'm sad," she says. "But it made me happy to see you."

Her words aren't right. I freeze, grip her hand tighter, boring through her with my eyes. "Please... don't go." It creeps out of me, desperate. "Stay with me."

She stares, wide-eyed, like she's surprised, like she doesn't understand. "Can I?"

Fear clutches me. Fear that if I even blink again, she'll vanish and I'll be left holding air.

"You're crying." She points to my cheek. It's wet.

My eyes close. I couldn't stop them. I gulp, open again. And now she's gone. It's just a stretch of dandelions ahead.

"It's okay." A little voice makes me flinch.

I'm not alone. There's still a hand in mine. Just smaller than I thought.

"I miss Mommy too." Rachel glowers up at me.

Another tear rolls down. I can't even flick it away. My cane plops to the grass. I scoop her up in my arms and hold her close.

I can't tell Cuddy I'm sorry. I can't tell her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. That I wanted us to be a family. I can't change any of that. But, with my hand cradling the back of Rachel's head, I know now what I can do.

Crunches of gravel make me turn back towards the synagogue. Shapes loom into focus in my bleary vision, inkblots against the colours of spring all around. They're coming closer. A row of men hauling a pine box up the path.

I swipe my eyes with my sleeve, Rachel adjusting her hold around my neck.

The rest of the procession trails behind. It's not long before they're close enough for me to register their faces. The immediate family stop in their tracks at the sight of us. Arlene is surprised, yet oddly satisfied. Julia trades a look with me that's half concern, half relief before saying something to her husband. There's a teary gaze from Cameron, nearly the same from Chase. A nod from Foreman. A muted smile from Thirteen, one that says she knew I'd do the right thing.

Wilson breaks from the group at the same time as Julia, both headed this way while remainder continue to the burial site.

I set Rachel down as they approach. She clings to my hand again. It's an awkward moment. Julia starts to open her mouth, then doesn't. Wilson waits for his turn, clearly preferring the two of us talk alone. Looks like it's up to me.

"Lisa changed her mind at the end," I say. "She wanted me to take Rachel."

Rachel leans against my leg now, half hiding behind me, like she's afraid her aunt will pull her away from me.

Julia digests the idea. "And what do you want?" she asks, straight-forward.

Wilson eyes me the same way he'd watch a boulder teeter on the edge of a cliffside.

I hesitate for a second, tilting my cane handle, only because these things don't come easily to me. It pushes out harsh and quick."I want her to be my daughter."

Julia's expression remains neutral. "All right."

"That's it?"

"If that's what Lisa wanted... and what you want, I've got no arguments. It's clear Rachel loves you."

Tension I wasn't even aware of releases from my muscles. I thought I'd have a battle on my hands. Thought I'd have to claw and fight to prove myself. I'm trying not to look surprised. Don't know if it's working, but Wilson isn't hiding it very well.

"We can settle the paperwork soon." Julia steps closer, kneels in front of Rachel. "You're going to be living with House, okay?"

Rachel gives a big nod.

"Okay, sweetie." Julia kisses her cheek, then backs away. She looks between me and Wilson before turning to leave. She doesn't have to explain. She's going to join the others.

When her back is a few feet from us and Rachel is playing with dandelions, Wilson finally speaks up. "I'm proud of you," he says, straight-faced.

"Oh, come on. Don't talk to me like I'm five."

He ignores that, maintaining the annoying, patronising expression on his face. "It's been hell, you know... worrying about you. Even if we managed to keep you from..." He pauses and looks at Rachel, who's engrossed in twirling a flower stem. His meaning is clear, so he doesn't finish.

It's like regurgitating a rock, but I have to say it. "I'm sorry. You were right."

Rachel puffs and flurries of white dance in front of her before drifting to the ground.

"I was stupid. With the experimental drug... the cutting myself up in the bathtub."

He sighs. "I'm sorry too." Tears well in his eyes, an external marker of everything that's been churning inside him, everything that can't be put into words. His arms raise, then drop, then raise again, in a robotic dance.

"I need to hug you now, okay?" It's like a question, but he doesn't wait for me to respond. In a quick and shaky motion, he latches onto me.

His arms are a crushing weight bearing down, but not because he's squeezing. I can't fight it. I hug him back.

"You're gonna move back in with me," he says. "You and Rachel. No arguments."

"Fine." My jaw moves lazily against his shoulder. "Because I don't have any."

The short while we stand like that feels like an eternity. I've haven't lost the only person who loves me, the only person I love. We pull apart.

"I should've told you about the hallucinations... seeing Amber again."

He flicks away an errant drop on his cheek, brows tightening. "Are you still seeing her?"

The last time was just before Cuddy went into v-fib. I pan the field, the fence, the headstones, by the tree ahead. Still nothing.

"I don't think so." My eyes dart to Rachel twirling another flower stem. "I don't want to go back to Mayfield." The admission leaves my lips alongside full awareness of how pathetic it sounds, like a child begging to stay home from school.

He glances to the fluff blowing around Rachel as she bounces towards us, then looks back at me. "You're gonna be okay."

A wrenching knot in my stomach tells me otherwise. Then Rachel stares up at me, grabs my hand. It's stupid, but... maybe he's right about this too. No, of course he is. Like almost always.

Rachel takes his hand next and we start walking with her in between us, headed to the burial site.

"You know, we probably look like a couple." Wilson rubs away another tear and forces a laugh.

"Yeah." My breath pushes out with the strain of another limp. "Too bad I don't care."

"What are you talking about?" Rachel asks.

"Nothing interesting." I look down at her. "What is interesting is how you managed to sneak out earlier without anyone noticing."

"I lied," she blurts proudly. "I said I had to pee. Cindy took me to the toilet and when she wasn't looking, I ran out."

"What a little criminal mastermind you are."

"It's almost scary." Wilson gives a weak smile.

I can't stop a slight one myself.

"You'd better watch out. You're gonna have a monster on your hands in ten years."

"I'm not worried. I've got sufficient backup."

His smile widens a bit, then vanishes as we pass through the gate into the cemetery. The others are visible ahead, family taking turns pouring handfuls of dirt into the grave.

The reality returns like a noose around my neck, choking the air out. I stop, which makes Wilson and Rachel stop. It's a cliché question, but I can't keep from asking. "How do you go on?"

Wilson takes a moment, watching the group ahead."A day at a time," he says. "I still miss Amber every day, cry sometimes when no one's around." His eyes turn to Rachel, between us. "But there are reasons to smile. And I know she'd want me to."

"You'll get through this." He gives me a determined glance, then looks at Rachel again, pats her head. "We all will. Because we're together."

My cane grinds against pebbles as I shift it. The sappiness seems to swirl into my mouth and cling to my tongue like a thick glob of corn syrup. But... it's true. We can't always get what we want, but sometimes we get what we need. And that's what really matters.

One Year Later

I don't remember whose idea it was now, apart from my having little say in the matter, but every Saturday night Thirteen, Chase, and Cameron come over for dinner and a movie. Rachel still loves anything with pirates.

"Babies are so boring!" Rachel stops in front of Chase and Cameron, cuddled close with their infant son. "When can he play with me?"

They smile. "He'll be ready in another couple of years," Cameron says.

"That's too long!" Rachel sags in exaggerated disgust.

"Come and sit down, sweetie." Wilson pats the space on the couch beside us

"Yeah, you're blocking the TV." I sweep the air with my cane.

"I am?" She juts her chin up and marches over.

"Yup."

"That's okay." She turns around. "I can see fine."

"What a little angel you are." I grab her by the sides and tug her onto my lap, wriggling and laughing.

Thirteen's eyes glint at the sight from the recliner. "I wonder who's teaching her that."

"Don't look at me. She's a natural."

She spills over into Wilson's lap, half on mine, half on his. He tickles her and provokes more squirming. And like that, she manages to have us all laughing. Something she does often.

I inch my body to the edge of the bed, facing the nightstand with Cuddy's photo. The glow of the alarm clock paints her teal-blue. "Rachel's getting so grown up," I say, without raising my head from the pillow. "Yeah, you wouldn't be thrilled about a few things."

My eyes roll sheepishly as if hers can glare from the shadowy photo and bore through me. "I still let her watch Brownbeard. And she usually stays up past ten. School mornings are a disaster. And..." I draw my lips into my mouth, hesitating. "Sometimes she has cookies for lunch."

"But," I quickly add. "Wilson makes sure that doesn't happen too often. He's good with her."

In the quiet, a whisper creeps from the next room. Speaking of Wilson... sounds like he's having a conversation of his own. Better when he's the one talking to Amber.

"Thirteen helps out sometimes, too."

Another pause. Wilson's words are too muffled to decipher. I lift my head and fluff my pillow.

"But I think you'd be proud of her," I say. "And me."

The End

AN : Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I did writing it. Please share your thoughts if you have the time. I'd love to hear your opinions.