Emma's hands trembled as she hung up the phone with Dr. Larson's office, the receptionist's words—"Sophie's case is complicated"—ringing in her ears. The looping symbol on Ethan's keychain, Noah's notebook, and Lily's medical record pulsed in her mind, tying her children together in a way she couldn't yet unravel. Paris, Noah's cryptic promise, loomed like a beacon, but right now, Sophie's refusal to continue treatment and Ethan's desperation demanded her focus. The familiar brick house felt both grounding and suffocating as she stood in the kitchen, the afternoon light slanting through the windows. Ethan was upstairs, his music a faint thump, while David was out meeting the lawyer about Ethan's court date.
She climbed the stairs, her heart heavy with the need to reach Ethan, to help Sophie before it was too late. His door was ajar, and she found him sitting on the floor, his sketchbook open to a new drawing of Sophie—her beanie tilted, her eyes fierce despite the shadows under them. He didn't look up as Emma entered, but his shoulders tensed.
"Ethan," she said, kneeling beside him, "I called Dr. Larson. I'm waiting to hear back about Sophie's options. But we need to talk to her parents. They need to know she's stopped treatment."
Ethan's pencil snapped in his hand, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You don't get it, Mom," he said, his voice low, raw. "Her parents don't care. They're too busy with their perfect life to notice she's dying." He threw the broken pencil across the room, his eyes blazing. "And you—you're just gonna make it worse, poking around like some hero."
Emma's chest tightened, his anger a mirror of Lily's defiance, Noah's distance. "I'm not trying to be a hero," she said, her voice steady despite the ache. "I'm trying to save her. And you. You're carrying this alone, Ethan, and it's too much."
He looked at her, his eyes red, his jaw tight. "You don't know what it's like," he said, his voice breaking. "She's all I have. If I lose her…" He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists.
Emma reached for him, and this time, he didn't pull away. Her hand rested on his shoulder, warm and solid. "You won't lose her," she said, her voice fierce. "I'll find a way. But I need you to help me. Take me to her parents."
Ethan hesitated, then nodded, his expression a mix of fear and resolve. "Okay," he said, his voice barely audible. "They live on Oakwood Drive. Big white house, you can't miss it."
Emma grabbed her keys, her mind racing. She drove Ethan to Oakwood Drive, the neighborhood a stark contrast to their own—manicured lawns, sprawling homes, the air heavy with wealth. The Reynolds' house was a mansion, its white columns gleaming under the evening sun. Ethan stayed in the car, his face pale, as Emma approached the door, her heart pounding.
A woman answered, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her smile practiced but cold. "Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes flicking over Emma's jeans and worn jacket.
"I'm Emma Carter, Ethan's mother," Emma said, her voice steady. "I need to talk to you about Sophie."
The woman's smile faltered, and she stepped aside, gesturing Emma into a pristine living room. "I'm Claire Reynolds," she said, her tone clipped. "What's this about? Sophie's fine, she's just… resting."
Emma's stomach churned at the dismissal. "She's not fine," she said, her voice sharp. "She's stopped her cancer treatment. She's scared, and she's hiding it from you. She needs help—now."
Claire's face paled, her hands fluttering to her necklace. "That's ridiculous," she said, but her voice wavered. "Sophie's been fine. She's just… dramatic. Teenagers, you know."
Emma's anger flared, but she kept her voice calm, her medical instincts taking over. "She's not being dramatic. She's sick, Mrs. Reynolds. I've spoken to her doctor's office, and I'm waiting for details, but she needs to resume treatment immediately. Ethan's been trying to help her, but he can't do it alone."
Claire's eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, a man—presumably Sophie's father—entered, his suit immaculate, his expression impatient. "What's going on here?" he demanded.
Emma repeated her plea, her voice steady but urgent, detailing Sophie's condition and her refusal to continue treatment. The Reynolds exchanged glances, their discomfort palpable. "We'll handle it," Mr. Reynolds said finally, his tone dismissive. "Thank you for your concern."
Emma wanted to argue, to shake them into action, but their coldness stopped her. She left, her heart heavy, and found Ethan waiting in the car, his eyes fixed on the house. "They won't do anything," he said, his voice flat. "They never do."
"They will," Emma said, her voice fierce, though doubt gnawed at her. "I'll make sure of it." She started the car, her mind spinning. Sophie's illness, Lily's remission, Noah's stars—they were threads in a tapestry she couldn't yet see, but the looping symbol tied them together.
As they drove home, Emma's gaze fell to Ethan's sketchbook, left open on the seat. A new drawing caught her eye—a bracelet, etched with that same looping symbol, wrapped around Sophie's wrist. Her breath caught. "Ethan," she said, her voice trembling, "where did Sophie get that bracelet?"
He glanced at the drawing, his expression guarded. "She's always had it," he said, his voice low. "Said it was from someone who saved her life."
Emma's heart stopped. Saved her life. The words triggered a flash—a hospital room, a child's wrist, her own handwriting on a chart. She gripped the wheel, her mind racing toward Paris, where Noah said they'd meet. Sophie, Lily, Ethan, Noah—they were connected, and the truth was waiting, just out of reach.