The candles on Jonah's birthday cake blur together, six tiny flames dancing in the dim hospital room light. He leans forward, his pale skin almost translucent under the fluorescents, and I watch his chest rise with the breath he's saving for this moment. "Make a wish, baby," I whisper. He closes his eyes—those same dark eyes Marcus gave him—and blows. The flames flicker out, and for one perfect second, everything is exactly as it should be. Then Marcus's phone rings. He silences it without looking. Jonah grins up at us, cake frosting already on his chin, and reaches for the plastic dinosaur I wrapped this morning. The phone rings again. "Marcus," I say quietly. "It's nothing." But his jaw tightens the way it does when he's lying. The phone rings a third time. Fourth. Fifth. Jonah's smile fades. "Daddy?" Marcus pulls the phone from his pocket, and I see the name on the screen before he can hide it: *Brooke.* His ex from medical school. The one he lived with for two years before we met. The one who texts him every few months about conference recommendations or residency gossip, messages I've learned to ignore because they mean nothing. The phone keeps ringing. Seventeen times in ninety seconds. "Answer it," I say, because something is wrong. You don't call someone seventeen times unless— Marcus steps into the hallway. Through the glass door, I watch him press the phone to his ear, watch his expression shift from annoyed to alert to something I can't name. Jonah tugs my sleeve. "Is Daddy coming back?" "Of course, baby." I cut him a slice of cake, my hands steady even though I can feel it building—that familiar dread that's lived in my chest since his diagnosis six months ago. Marcus comes back in. His face is carefully blank. "I need to go," he says. The cake knife stops halfway to Jonah's plate. "Go where?" "Brooke's daughter—Mia—something happened. She's hysterical. She won't calm down unless—" He stops. Starts again. "She's asking for me." I set down the knife very carefully. "Your surgery is in eleven hours," I say to Jonah, not Marcus. "I know." Marcus crouches beside Jonah's bed. "Buddy, I'll be back before you even wake up tomorrow, okay? I promise." Jonah nods, but his hand finds mine under the blanket. Marcus looks at me. Really looks at me. And I watch him decide to leave anyway.