“What’s this?” I asked, though it was clear.
“Help,” she said simply.
Inside were stacks of cash — more than I’d seen in years.
“I’ve booked you a retreat,” Aveline went on, as I stared in shock. “Three weeks, somewhere warm, with real rest and meals you don’t cook. You need to breathe, Jocelyn. You need to grieve properly. And when it’s over, we’ll be here.”
I shook my head, dazed.
“Aveline, I can’t. I can’t leave the kids — they barely understand Quade’s death. I can’t disappear while everything’s still broken.”
“You won’t be disappearing,” she said, hands folded. “I’ll stay with them. They’ll be safe. And you need this.”
I started to argue, but the doctor came in. He looked at Aveline, then me.
“Jocelyn,” he said firmly but kindly. “If you don’t rest, I can’t promise your health. Your blood pressure is dangerously high. Your body is begging for a break.”
Something inside me gave way. I wanted to insist I was fine, that I could keep pushing. That mothers don’t get breaks when bills pile up and the roof leaks.
“I don’t have time,” I whispered, voice cracking. “There’s too much to fix.”
