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Being this close to her while she’s in such a vulnerable state is something I doubt many can claim to have experienced. I feel an overwhelming sense of appreciation knowing that I’m now one of those few, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.

Her parents being on the other side of this room grinds my gears. I’m on high alert, my protective instincts blaring. It’s upsetting that I feel the need to protect her from her parents in the first place, but after only spending a few minutes with them, I recognized that they aren’t the right people to take care of her right now.

Her mom is too pompous and high on herself to realize that she’s ruined her relationship with her daughter, and her father turns a blind eye to everything her mother says. He might verywell have a good heart and genuinely care for Bryce, but he’s doing a terrible job of showing it.

She deserves more from them. Love and understanding and support.

Everything that I’ve been lucky enough to receive from my moms. There hasn’t been a single day in my life where I didn’t feel like they were my biggest fans. Sometimes it’s easy to take for granted the relationships we have, but after today, I’m realizing how blessed I am.

Our parents hold such an important position in our lives. They’re supposed to love us unconditionally, nurture always, and teach us right from wrong. The world around us will always change, but family is supposed to be everlasting. So why does Bryce’s appear as though it’s one wrong comment away from crumbling?

Stroking her hairline, I let my gaze linger on the slow droop of her smile. The damp cloth on her forehead is warm now, so I peel it off and reluctantly get off the bed. She doesn’t move a muscle as the mattress shifts with my weight.

There’s no one in the hallway when I step out and shut the door behind me with a soft click. The Lemieux house is intimidating enough on the outside, but inside, it’s somehow worse. When Bryce’s father carried her into this room, I wasn’t bothering to make note of which hallways we were heading down or how many doors we passed. Bryce was my focus.

Now, I realize it would have been easier if I had been more aware of my surroundings.

The hallway is long, with too many doors on either side and a bright light shining at the end where it curves. My socks hide my footsteps as I pad along the sleek floors.

A staircase is down the curved hall, and I make a beeline for it. White walls are everywhere with boring, minimalist artwork hung on them. The lack of family photos on this floor would be alarming if I were anywhere else. My childhood home, for example.

There were a few on the main level that I noticed when we arrived, but other than that . . . it’s been quite sad.

Gripping onto the staircase railing, I take the stairs carefully, not wanting to make enough noise to draw attention to myself. I’m not doing anything wrong, but I’m a stranger to Bryce’s parents and could do with avoiding any weird encounters right now.

I need to find medication, a bowl for Bryce in case she can’t make it to the bathroom next time she has to throw up, and to cool this cloth back off. Then I can go back to her.

The main floor is as empty and quiet as the second. No chatter or television noise. I’d even settle for some soft music just to fill the void as I slip into what I hope is the kitchen and freeze.

Grabbing the doorframe, I keep still, as if that’ll turn me invisible or something.

Bryce’s mother must have some freaky motion-detecting superpower because the moment I take a silent step backward, she’s whipping around and pinning me with sharp, distrusting eyes.

“What are you doing?” she snaps.

I wet my lips and release the doorframe. “Bryce needs medicine. And a bucket or a bowl.”

She hums, patting the skirt of her dress. “We don’t keep medication in the kitchen.”

“What about a bowl?”

“We don’t use bowls. There should be a bucket in the garage. I’ll have my husband find and bring it to you.”

Who doesn’t have a family puke bowl?Geez, we are from completely different tax brackets.

“Thank you,” I say and then turn, prepared to leave.

Something stops me. A tug deep inside myself.

Facing her again, I flex my fingers at my side and lift my chin. “Did you know that Bryce doesn’t like fish?”

“She is too picky.”

“Actually, she’s not. But you took the one food she doesn’t like and made sure it was here today. Why? Just to upset her?”

Claudine sets a hand on the kitchen island and leans against it, hip popped. It’s a position that’s so Bryce-like it’s almost hard to believe. The tight pull of her features should have me abandoning this conversation before things get out hand, but again, something stops me.

“Who are you to judge me, Daisy Mitchell?” She sneers my name as if that’ll intimidate me.