Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 131

Chapter 131

Damon pov

I called my mother the next morning, still processing everything from the previous night’s difficult conversation, understanding she deserved to know how genuinely my father was struggling despite his physical recovery progressing steadily.

“He broke down completely last night,” I told her, once she’d answered. “Crying at the kitchen table, genuinely scared about how much time he might actually have left, about Genevieve’s continued threat, about whether he’ manage to finish repairing everything he’s trying to fix before it’s simply too late.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and when she spoke again, her voice carried thick, obvious emotion. “He actually let himself cry? In front of you?”

“Evelyn found him first, actually,” I said. “He wanted to be alone initially, but I went to him afterward. He was genuinely vulnerable, Mom. More honest about his fear than I’ve ever witnessed from him before.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I could hear her breathing shift, could tell she was working to hold back her own emotional response. “I don’t know what to do with that information,” she admitted finally, her voice breaking slightly. “Thirty years, and I don’t think I ever once saw him genuinely cry, not even when things were at their absolute worst between us.”

“I think something’s genuinely shifting in him,” I said carefully. “Not just performance anymore, not just strategic change to earn back what he’s lost. Actual, vulnerable reckoning with everything-his mortality, his past failures, real fear rather than carefully managed authority.”

“Should I visit him?” she asked, something uncertain and hopeful both audible in her voice. “I don’t want to intrude if he needs space to actually process this privately, but I also don’t want him facing something this difficult without any support beyond you and Evelyn.”

I considered the question carefully, understanding the complicated weight of what she was actually asking. “I think he’d genuinely welcome it, honestly. Maybe you could come by, spend a day helping him, being present in whatever way feels comfortable for both of you.”

“Maybe,” she said, something thoughtful entering her voice now. “I could help him with some of the daily tasks he’s still struggling to accept assistance with, spend some actual time together, see how it feels rather than trying to plan out every detail in advance.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I said, genuine hope building in my chest at the possibility, though I tried to keep my own expectations carefully measured, understanding this remained her choice to navigate at whatever pace felt right for her.

“I’ll come by this afternoon,” she decided. “Just to check on him, offer whatever practical help seems useful. Nothing more complicated than that, at least not yet.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “I think he’d genuinely appreciate it.”

We ended the call, and I sat for a moment afterward, processing everything my mother’s obvious emotional response, her tentative willingness to actually spend time with him despite everything still complicated in their history, the quiet, persistent hope building beneath my careful attempt at measured expectation.

*I have a feeling they’ll eventually get back together,* I thought, turning the possibility over carefully. Not immediately, not without considerable additional work and genuine, continued transformation on his part. But watching everything shift these past several weeks-her tender care during his recovery, his raw, genuine vulnerability, the obvious enduring love neither of them had apparently managed to fully extinguish despite

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thirty years of accumulated hurt-something in me genuinely believed reconciliation remained possible, even likely, given enough time and continued honest effort.

*I just hope he actually has time left, I thought, old fear resurfacing sharp and immediate. The surgeon’s warning still echoed in my mind-additional cardiac damage, continued stress genuinely risking his long-term survival, uncertain timeline for exactly how much longer his heart might actually hold.

I found Evelyn in the kitchen when I made my way back downstairs, Willow settled in her high chair working through a small pile of finger foods with focused, determined concentration.

“I called my mother,” I told her, settling into the chair across from Willow’s chair, watching her methodical approach to eating with quiet affection despite the heavier conversation weighing on my mind. “She’s coming by this afternoon, going to spend some time helping Dad, seeing how it feels being more directly present again.” “That’s good,” Evelyn said, genuine warmth in her voice. “How do you feel about it?”

“Hopeful,” I admitted. “Though I’m trying not to let that hope get ahead of reality. There’s still so much they need to actually work through, genuine trust that needs rebuilding, decades of accumulated hurt that doesn’t simply disappear because he’s had a health scare and some genuine emotional breakthrough.”

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