Page 16 of Friends are Forever (Teton Mountain #6)
T he hallway outside Camille’s room was quiet, hushed under the low hum of fluorescent lights. A nurse gave Lila a small nod as she passed, chart in hand. “She’s awake.”
Lila paused just outside the door, her hand resting on the handle. She wasn’t sure she was ready. She wasn’t sure Camille was ready. There was no blueprint for this kind of grief. Only love, and the aching pull to be near her daughter.
She eased the door open.
Camille was propped up against a stack of pillows, IV line in her arm, her skin pale against the hospital sheets. Her eyes—so much like her father’s—met Lila’s with a flicker of something unreadable. Not softness. Not quite anger. Something sharper. Wounded.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Lila said gently as she stepped inside.
Camille turned her face toward the window. “They told me.”
Lila’s breath caught. “I’m so sorry.”
A brittle laugh escaped Camille’s throat. “Yeah, well. What’s done is done.”
“Camille—”
“There’s nothing keeping me here now.” Her voice was clipped, her gaze still fixed on the glass. “I’ll call the university next week. Tell them I’m coming back. It’s not too late to join the fall semester. I guess I should’ve never left.”
Lila stepped closer to the bed. “Honey, it’s okay to feel however you feel, but maybe give yourself a little time?—”
“No.” Camille turned then, her face stark with defiance.
“You don’t get it. I had plans. Big ones.
This baby—” her voice caught, just for a second, then she swallowed it down, hard— “was never supposed to be part of the story. I let myself think I could do both. Be a mom and still chase a dream. But she must’ve known… ”
Lila sat in the chair beside her and reached for her hand. “You’re in shock. You’re hurting. And it’s okay to not know what to feel right now.”
Camille yanked her hand away. “Don’t.”
Lila blinked, stung, but didn’t move. “You’ve always had fire, Camille.
You came into this world strong-willed and fearless.
And you faced the unthinkable with your dad.
All while remaining sweet…remaining you.
I love that about you. But you don’t have to be strong right now.
You don’t have to know what’s next today. ”
Camille looked down at her lap, the bravado wavering.
“I know what it’s like to lose something you didn’t expect to forfeit,” Lila said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You think charging ahead will dull the ache. But it won’t.”
A long silence passed between them.
Finally, Camille spoke. “I feel empty.”
Lila reached out again, slower this time, her palm open on the edge of the bed.
Camille stared at it, then tentatively laid her hand in her mother’s.
“I’m here,” Lila said. “And I’ll be here—through all of it. Whether you stay, go back to school, chase dreams, or fall apart first. I’m not going anywhere.”
And this time, her daughter didn’t pull away.
Camille was discharged from the hospital two days later. Lila brought her home, set her up in the guest room with soft blankets and ginger tea, and waited—for a shift, for a crack in the armor, for her daughter to crumble in a way that invited comfort.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Camille moved through the house like a ghost, quiet and determined. She answered calls from her professors, sent emails confirming her return to campus, and by the fifth morning, she had her bags packed and stacked by the door.
There’d been no real conversation, no closure—just the hollow logistics of moving forward.
And so, less than a week after losing the baby, Camille climbed into her compact car and pulled out of the driveway with her eyes on the horizon and her heart locked up tight.
Lila stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching the taillights until they disappeared down the winding road.
She’d waved, forced a smile. Even managed a cheery, “Text when you stop for gas,” though her voice had cracked at the end.
After the car was gone, the silence came rushing in.
Lila made her way down the gravel path to the mailbox, craving something—anything—to fill the emptiness. Perhaps she should try and meet up with one of the girls for lunch.
Inside, tucked between a real estate flyer and an electric bill, was a single ivory envelope. Heavy stock. A formal monogram engraved on the flap in raised gold lettering.
She opened it slowly, her fingers trembling. The card inside was crisp, impersonal.
“I’m sorry to learn of your loss. Sincerely, Senator Claudia Newcomb.”
No return address. No warmth. No mention of Camille’s name.
Lila stood there for a long moment, the breeze stirring her hair as she stared down at the card. Somehow, the cool politeness of it hit harder than she’d expected.
She folded it once, then again, and slipped it back into the envelope. Her eyes burned, but no tears came.
Instead, she turned and walked slowly back to the house—each step measured, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Her daughter was gone. Her granddaughter never had a chance. And the woman who chose to never be part of their future had sent regrets written in gold.