He carried Mia from the rideshare because she had fallen asleep twenty minutes earlier.
His mother opened the door before he knocked.
Margaret Carter was sixty-seven and wore the same faded blue robe Ethan remembered from childhood.
She saw Mia first.
Then Ethan.
Then the exhaustion in her son’s face.
“What happened?”
“Long flight.”
“Ethan.”
“Mom.”
She knew.
Mothers often did.
He carried Mia upstairs and tucked her into the bed she always used when visiting.
Captain went beneath her chin.
Ethan stood there longer than necessary.
Mia stirred.
“Dad?”
“Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes opened slightly.
“You saved her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she
okay?”
“I think so.”
Mia studied him.
“Are you okay?”
That question was harder.
Ethan smiled anyway.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
He looked down.
Mia’s small hand reached out.
He took it.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Mom would’ve been proud.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
There it was.
The wound.
Eleven years old and still fresh enough to bleed.
He kissed Mia’s forehead.
“Sleep.”
When he returned downstairs, Margaret was waiting in the kitchen.
Coffee already poured.
She pushed a mug toward him.
“You used it again.”
Ethan stared into the coffee.
“Used what?”
“Don’t insult me.”
He said nothing.
“Your training.”
“Someone needed help.”
“And you helped.”
“Yes.”
Margaret sat opposite him.
“You know that isn’t what
I’m asking.”
Ethan’s hands tightened around the mug.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“No, Mom. She was dying.”
“And now?”
“Now she isn’t.”
Margaret watched her son.
“What was her name?”
“Victoria.”
The mug stopped halfway to Margaret’s mouth.
“What?”
Ethan looked up.
“Victoria. Why?”
His mother set the mug down very carefully.
“Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret’s face had changed.
“Ethan, what flight?”
“2247.”
“Where was she sitting?”
“Business class. Mom, what is this?”
Margaret stood and walked toward the counter where her phone was charging.
