Chapter 32 The Waiting
The three days stretched like years.
Damian went to work. He came home. He ate dinner. He helped with homework. But his smile did not reach his eyes. He checked his phone constantly, then put it away without looking at the screen.
I watched him from across the table, across the room, across the bed at night. He was a man holding his breath.
"Talk to me," I said on the second evening. The children were asleep. The house was quiet.
"Nothing to say." He stared at the wall.
"You're scared."
He turned to me. "Terrified."
"Then say that. Don't pretend."
His jaw tightened. "What if I gave them something? What if Lily's fall was a warning? What if Rose has been hiding symptoms?"
"Rose hasn't been hiding anything. She's healthy. They both are."
"We don't know that. Not for sure." He stood and walked to the window. "My grandfather died at forty. My father was thirty-five when they found his condition. He lived, but he was never the same."
I went to him and placed my hand on his back. "You were tested. They said you were clear."
"They said I was clear based on the technology they had twenty years ago. Things change."
I turned him to face me. "Then we wait. And whatever comes, we face it."
He pulled me into his arms. "I don't deserve you."
"You don't get to decide that."
On the third day, the results arrived.
Damian was at work. I was home with Waffle, who had eaten a pillow. My phone rang. His name appeared on the screen.
I answered immediately. "Damian?"
"I have the results." His voice was strange. Hollow.
"And?"
A long pause. "I'm not clear. The test found markers. They want me to see a specialist."
The world tilted. I sat down on the couch. "What kind of markers?"
"Something called a clotting disorder. It means my blood doesn't flow the way it should. It increases risk for strokes, heart attacks." He stopped. "It's hereditary."
I closed my eyes. "The girls?"
"They need to be tested. Both of them. And Leo and Max. My brother had it too. He never knew."
I thought of Ethan. Damian's brother, dead in a car accident. But was it really an accident? Or had something else happened?
"Damian, come home. We'll make appointments. We'll do this together."
"I'm already in the car."
He arrived twenty minutes later. His face was pale, his hands unsteady. I met him at the door and held him.
"We're going to be okay," I whispered.
"You don't know that."
"No. But I know we're going to face it."
He pulled back. "The specialist can see me tomorrow. And the pediatrician can see the children next week."
"So we go. All of us."
He nodded. "All of us."
That night, we told the older children. Not the full truth, not the fear. Just enough.
Rose listened without interrupting. Leo asked questions. Max played with Waffle. Lily touched her bandage.
"Does this mean Daddy is sick?" Rose asked.
Damian knelt in front of her. "It means I have something in my blood that doctors need to watch. It doesn't mean I'm sick right now."
"But you could get sick?"
"Maybe. But we're going to see doctors who know how to help."
Rose studied his face. "Promise you'll tell us if something changes?"
"I promise."
She hugged him. He held on longer than usual.
The specialist was a woman named Dr. Harris. Her office was quiet, modern, filled with plants. She shook Damian's hand, then mine.
"I've reviewed your results," she said. "You have a genetic clotting disorder called Factor V Leiden. It's relatively common. Many people live their whole lives without knowing they have it."
Damian sat stiffly. "But some don't."
"That's correct. The risks include deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, and stroke. But with proper management, those risks can be significantly reduced."
"What kind of management?"
"Blood thinners. Regular monitoring. Lifestyle adjustments. And we'll need to test your children."
Damian nodded slowly. "When?"
"I've already sent orders to the pediatrician. You can take them this week."
Dr. Harris leaned forward. "Mr. Blackwood, I want you to hear me clearly. This is not a death sentence. It is a condition that requires attention. You can live a long, healthy life with the right care."
He looked at me. I squeezed his hand.
"Thank you," he said.
The pediatrician's office was crowded. Lily, Rose, Leo, Max. Four children, four blood draws. Lily cried. Max hid under the chair. Leo was brave until the needle appeared, then he cried too.
Rose sat still, offered her arm, and watched the vial fill with her blood. She did not flinch.
"You're very brave," the nurse said.
Rose looked at me. "I'm not brave. I'm just tired of being scared."
I kissed her forehead. "That's the definition of brave."
The results would take a week.
Damian started blood thinners. He had to inject himself every night. The first time, his hands shook so badly I had to help.
"Close your eyes," I said. "Breathe."
He did. I pressed the needle into his skin. He flinched, then relaxed.
"Done."
He opened his eyes. "That wasn't so bad."
"Liar. You hated every second."
He laughed, a real laugh. "I love you."
"I love you too."
On the fifth night, after the children were asleep, Damian sat on the porch alone. I joined him.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"About my brother. About whether he knew. About whether it contributed to the accident."
"You'll never know."
"No." He looked at the stars. "But I know now. And I know my children might have it too. I can't protect them from that."
I took his hand. "You can't protect them from everything. But you can be there. You can fight. You can love them."
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "When the results come back, if they have it, I'll blame myself."
"And I'll remind you that it's not your fault. Every day, if I have to."
He pulled me close. "Promise?"
"Promise."
We sat in silence, watching the night. The ring on my finger caught the moonlight. Somewhere inside, our children dreamed.
The results were coming. And whatever they said, we would face them together.