Chapter 8 Hospital Truths

# Chapter 8: Hospital Truths

Three weeks after the greenhouse night, our tentative family rhythm was disrupted by the call I had been dreading. Dr. Chen, Lily's ophthalmologist, wanted to move up her regular appointment. The symptoms we had been monitoring—her occasional headaches and sensitivity to light—had appeared in her latest test results.

"It's probably just a precaution," Ted said when I told him, though his tense expression betrayed his concern.

We had settled into an unexpected co-parenting arrangement. Ted had returned to sleeping at the main house but spent most of his waking hours with us at the guest house. The triplets moved freely between both spaces, treating the entire compound as their domain. Against all my expectations, it worked. We were finding our way as a family, even if Ted and I remained cautious around each other.

The morning of Lily's appointment, I found Ted already in the kitchen, making pancakes shaped like dinosaurs—the triplets' favorite.

"You didn't have to come over so early," I said, accepting the coffee he offered.

"I wanted to," he replied simply. "Besides, I cleared my schedule for the whole day. Whatever happens at the appointment, we face it together."

The casual "we" still caught me off guard sometimes—the assumption that we were a unit again, partners in this most important task of raising our children. More surprising was how natural it had begun to feel.

Lily appeared in the doorway, already dressed in her favorite purple outfit. "Is today my eye doctor day?"

"Yes, sweetie," I confirmed. "Dad's coming with us this time."

Her face brightened. "Good! He can see my special eye machine. It takes pictures inside my eyeballs!"

Ted chuckled at her enthusiasm. "Sounds fascinating. I can't wait."

The boys, hearing the commotion, joined us for breakfast. "Can we come too?" Oliver asked through a mouthful of pancake.

I hesitated. Usually, I arranged for them to stay with a sitter during Lily's appointments to avoid overwhelming the doctor's office.

"Actually," Ted interjected, "I thought we might all go. After the appointment, there's a science museum nearby with a new robotics exhibit."

"Really?" Ethan perked up immediately.

"If that's okay with your mom," Ted added, looking to me for approval.

I nodded, touched by his thoughtfulness. "That sounds perfect."

As we drove to the medical center in Ted's SUV—now permanently equipped with three booster seats—I watched him interact with the children in the rearview mirror. He had taken to fatherhood with a natural ease that sometimes left me breathless. For someone who had missed the first five years, he had integrated himself into their lives as if he'd always been there.

The appointment itself started routinely enough. Dr. Chen—a kind, efficient woman who had been treating Lily since her first symptoms—performed the usual tests while Ted watched with intense interest, asking informed questions that impressed both the doctor and me.

"You've done your research," Dr. Chen observed with approval.

"I've been catching up," Ted replied, his hand finding mine briefly. A gesture of solidarity that felt both new and familiar.

After the examination, Dr. Chen asked to speak with us privately. A nurse took the triplets to the playroom, Lily skipping ahead without concern while the boys threw worried glances over their shoulders.

Once the door closed behind them, Dr. Chen's expression turned serious. "Lily's condition has progressed faster than we anticipated. The pressure on her optic nerve has increased significantly since her last visit."

My heart sank. "What does that mean for treatment?"

"I think we need to consider more aggressive options now, rather than waiting," she replied, pulling up Lily's scan results on her monitor. "The medication is no longer controlling the progression adequately."

Ted leaned forward, studying the images intently. "You're talking about a bone marrow transplant."

Dr. Chen nodded. "It's become our recommended course of action. The success rate is excellent when we have a good donor match, which is why I wanted to speak with both of you today." She turned to Ted. "As her biological father with the same genetic marker, you're potentially her ideal donor."

The implication hung in the air—if Ted hadn't found us, if he weren't here now, Lily's treatment options would have been significantly more limited.

"What's the procedure?" Ted asked, his voice steady despite the emotion I could see in his eyes.

Dr. Chen explained the process—testing to confirm compatibility, the collection procedure, Lily's preparation and treatment. "It's not a minor undertaking," she concluded. "But with a parent donor, the success rates are over 90%."

"When do we start?" Ted's response was immediate.

"We should begin compatibility testing today, if possible," Dr. Chen replied. "I'd like to schedule the procedure within the next month, assuming you're a match."

"Of course," Ted agreed without hesitation. "Whatever she needs."

As Dr. Chen left to arrange the testing, Ted and I were left alone in the consultation room. The weight of the situation settled over us—the reality that our daughter needed serious medical intervention, and the strange twist of fate that had brought Ted back into our lives just when Lily needed him most.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, noticing my silence.

"I should be asking you that," I deflected. "You just volunteered to have your bone marrow extracted."

"It wasn't even a question," he said simply. "She's my daughter."

The straightforward declaration, the absolute certainty in his voice, broke something inside me. Tears I had been holding back for weeks—maybe years—suddenly spilled over.

"Hey," Ted moved his chair closer, his arm around my shoulders. "She's going to be fine. We caught this in time."

"But what if we hadn't?" I whispered. "What if you hadn't found us? If the triplets hadn't hacked your proposal? If—"

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "We can't live in 'what ifs.' You did everything right, Wilona. You got her the best care possible. You monitored her condition. You kept her safe."

"But I kept her from you," I admitted, the guilt I'd been carrying finally surfacing. "And it turns out she needed you all along."

Ted was quiet for a moment, his hand still warm on my shoulder. "We both made choices we thought were protecting her. The important thing is we're here now, together, and we can give her what she needs."

The door opened before I could respond, and Dr. Chen returned with a nurse to collect samples from Ted for testing. I composed myself, wiping away tears before we collected the children from the playroom.

"Did you see all the toys?" Lily exclaimed as we walked back to the car. "There was a robot dog that could do tricks!"

"Very cool," I managed a smile, exchanging a look with Ted over her head. We had agreed not to worry the children until we had more information.

True to his word, Ted took us to the science museum after the appointment. Watching him guide the triplets through the exhibits—explaining concepts, answering their endless questions, his hand protectively on Lily's shoulder—I felt a surge of gratitude so intense it was almost painful.

By the time we returned home, the children were exhausted from their day of excitement. After dinner, they fell asleep earlier than usual, giving Ted and me a rare moment alone in the guest house living room.

"Dr. Chen said they'll have the initial compatibility results tomorrow," Ted said, nursing a glass of wine. "But she seemed confident I'd be a match."

I nodded, staring into my own untouched glass. "Ted, there's something I need to tell you. About when Lily was first diagnosed."

He set down his wine, giving me his full attention—a quality that had always drawn me to him, his ability to focus completely on what mattered in the moment.

"When she was three, her symptoms appeared suddenly," I began. "High fever, severe headaches. The local hospital didn't know what was causing it. They ran tests, but everything came back inconclusive."

Ted listened silently, his expression grave.

"I was terrified," I continued. "A single mother with a desperately ill child and two other toddlers to care for. The doctors kept asking about family medical history, paternal conditions..." I took a shaky breath. "I almost contacted you then."

"Why didn't you?" His question held no accusation, only genuine curiosity.

"I got as far as looking up Preston Technologies' contact information," I admitted. "But then I saw the announcement of your engagement to Vivian Chen, with Margaret standing beside you in all the photos, looking triumphant. I remembered the threat, the accident... and I couldn't risk it."

Ted closed his eyes briefly, pain crossing his features. "That engagement was purely for show. Part of Margaret's grand plan. It fell apart within months."

"I didn't know that," I said softly. "All I saw was that you had moved on, and Margaret was still there, still powerful. So I found another way. I researched specialists, maxed out credit cards, worked three jobs to pay for Lily's treatment."

"You shouldn't have had to do that alone," Ted said, his voice tight with emotion.

"I wasn't entirely alone," I corrected. "My friend Alex—the one who helped me disappear—he found doctors who would treat her without asking too many questions about our identity. And the boys were amazing, even at three. They would read to her when she was too sick to get out of bed, make her laugh when the treatments made her miserable."

Ted smiled faintly at that. "They're incredible brothers."

"They are," I agreed. "But now I wonder if I made the right choice. If my fear kept Lily from getting the treatment she really needed."

"You made the only choice you could with the information you had," Ted said firmly. "I'm the one who should have found you sooner, who should have questioned Margaret's story about your 'death' more thoroughly."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our past choices and present situation settling between us.

"Whatever happens," Ted said finally, "I want you to know that I'm all in, Wilona. Not just for Lily's treatment, but for all of it—the hard days, the scary moments, the uncertain future. I missed five years. I won't miss another day if I can help it."

The sincerity in his voice, the steady determination in his eyes—it was the Ted I had fallen in love with years ago, before complications and family obligations had torn us apart. The man who approached problems with unwavering focus and commitment.

"Thank you," I said simply, knowing the words were inadequate for what I felt.

The next morning, Dr. Chen called with the preliminary results—Ted was indeed a compatible donor for Lily. The procedure was scheduled for the following week, with pre-treatment to begin immediately.

Telling the triplets was the next challenge. We gathered them in the living room, trying to explain Lily's condition in terms they could understand without frightening them.

"Remember how sometimes Lily gets headaches and can't look at bright lights?" I began.

They nodded solemnly.

"The doctors have found a way to make those headaches go away for good," Ted continued. "But Lily will need to stay in the hospital for a little while."

"Will it hurt?" Lily asked, her small face serious.

Ted knelt to her level. "Some parts might be uncomfortable, but the doctors will give you medicine to help. And Mom and I will be with you the whole time."

"What about us?" Oliver asked anxiously.

"You'll be able to visit," I assured him. "And when you're not at the hospital, you'll stay here with Maria." The housekeeper had become a beloved figure to the children over the past month.

"But the most important part," Ted added, "is that I'm going to give Lily some of my bone marrow—like a special medicine that only I can make—to help her eyes get better."

Ethan's brow furrowed in concentration. "Because you have the same eye condition?"

"Exactly," Ted nodded. "My bone marrow has special cells that can help Lily's body fix the problem with her eyes."

"Like a superpower?" Lily perked up at this idea.

Ted smiled. "Something like that."

"Will I get your other superpowers too?" she asked excitedly. "Like being tall?"

The tension broke as we all laughed. "Probably not," Ted chuckled. "But you already have plenty of your own superpowers."

The children seemed to accept the explanation with remarkable calm. Having grown up with Lily's condition, they were accustomed to doctor visits and medical discussions. Still, I noticed the boys exchanging worried glances when they thought we weren't looking.

That night, after tucking Lily in, I found the boys huddled in Ethan's room with a tablet.

"What are you two up to?" I asked, suspicious of their guilty expressions.

"Research," Oliver admitted. "About bone marrow transplants."

My heart ached at their concern. "You could have asked us if you had questions."

"We wanted to understand the procedure," Ethan explained, showing me the medical website they'd been studying. "To make sure Lily will be okay."

"And Dad too," Oliver added. "The website says bone marrow donation can be painful."

I sat down between them, pulling them close. "Your dad is very strong, and he wants to do this for Lily. The doctors will take good care of both of them."

"But what if something goes wrong?" Ethan's voice was small.

"That's very unlikely," I assured him. "But no matter what happens, we'll face it together. As a family."

The word "family" hung in the air—a concept that had expanded and evolved so dramatically in recent weeks.

"Are you and Dad going to get married now?" Oliver asked abruptly.

The question caught me off guard. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because he's saving Lily," Ethan explained, as if it were obvious. "And you like him again. We can tell."

"It's more complicated than that," I hedged.

"Grown-ups always say that," Oliver sighed dramatically.

I couldn't help but smile. "When you're older, you'll understand that relationships take time to rebuild, especially when they've been broken."

"But you're fixing it, right?" Ethan pressed. "Like Dad is fixing Lily?"

The innocent parallel struck me deeply. Were Ted and I healing something between us, even as he prepared to heal our daughter?

"We're working on it," I said finally. "Now, it's late. Time for bed."

After they were asleep, I wandered into the kitchen to find Ted sitting at the island counter, reviewing medical documents Dr. Chen had sent over.

"The boys are worried about you," I said, pouring myself a cup of tea.

He looked up, surprised. "About me?"

"They've been researching bone marrow donation. They're concerned it will hurt you."

His expression softened. "I'll talk to them tomorrow. Make sure they understand it's a small price to pay for helping their sister."

"They also wanted to know if we're getting married now," I added, watching his reaction carefully.

Ted's eyebrows rose, but he didn't seem as startled as I expected. "What did you tell them?"

"That it's complicated."

"Is it?" he asked quietly. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems simpler every day."

I set my tea down, studying his face—the face I had once known better than my own, that I was slowly learning to read again. "Ted—"

"I'm not proposing," he clarified quickly. "Not now, not like this. When—if—that happens, it won't be because of circumstances or convenience or even for the children. It will be because we've both decided it's what we want."

The certainty in his voice, the careful way he said "when" before correcting to "if"—it created a flutter in my chest I wasn't prepared for.

"One crisis at a time," I said lightly, trying to defuse the sudden tension.

He nodded, respecting the boundary. "Lily first. Everything else can wait."

The day of the procedure arrived with startling speed. The hospital had prepared a private suite for Lily, with accommodations for Ted and me to stay with her. The boys had said their tearful goodbyes that morning, extracting promises that we would video call them every day.

As the nurses prepared Lily for her treatment, Ted was taken to another room for his donation procedure. I stood in the hallway between their rooms, torn about where I should be.

"Go with Lily," Ted insisted. "I'll be fine. She needs you more right now."

I nodded gratefully, squeezing his hand before following our daughter into the treatment room. The next hours were a blur of medical procedures, Lily's brave smile whenever she caught me watching her, and the steady stream of updates from Ted's room.

By evening, the donation was complete, and Lily had received the first treatment of her father's cells. She slept peacefully, medication keeping her comfortable, while Ted—pale but determined—insisted on sitting beside her bed despite the doctors' recommendation that he rest.

"You're as stubborn as she is," I observed, bringing him a cup of hospital coffee.

"Preston family trait," he replied with a weak smile. "Along with questionable eyesight and exceptional intelligence."

I sat beside him, both of us watching the gentle rise and fall of Lily's chest. "Thank you," I said softly. "Not just for today, but for everything since you found us. You've been exactly what they needed—what we all needed."

Ted's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with my own in a gesture that felt like coming home. "When I thought I'd lost you," he said quietly, "I lost myself too. Finding you again—finding our children—it's like getting a second chance at life."

In the quiet hospital room, with our daughter sleeping peacefully between us, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge what had been growing clearer each day—that the wall I'd built around my heart had crumbled, and that perhaps it was time to stop rebuilding it.

Ted's eyes were growing heavy, the fatigue from the procedure finally catching up with him. "You should get some rest," I urged, helping him to the recliner the nurses had prepared.

"Will you stay?" he asked, already half-asleep.

"I'll be right here," I promised, and I meant it in more ways than one.

As he drifted off, his hand still holding mine, I realized that somewhere along the way—between hacked drones and kidnapping rescues, greenhouse lights and hospital rooms—we had become not just co-parents but partners again. Different than before, shaped by separation and struggle, but perhaps stronger for having survived it.

Lily stirred in her sleep, a small smile crossing her face as if she was having a pleasant dream. Whatever the future held for her health, for our family, for Ted and me, I knew with sudden clarity that we would face it together.

And for the first time in five years, that thought brought not fear but peace.