The Edge of Almost

The screen on my laptop dims, prompting me to glance at the clock. 2:07 AM.

I curse under my breath, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my eyes. The words on the document in front of me blur together, another case file demanding my attention. The closing argument won't write itself, but right now, my brain is sludge.

With a groan, I push back from the desk, my muscles protesting the sudden movement. As I stretch, my gaze falls on the framed photo perched neatly beside my work lamp.

Lauren and I. Smiling, carefree. Bright-eyed versions of ourselves from another lifetime, before hospitals and painkillers and carefully tracked medication schedules. Her smile in the photo—radiant, effortless—is a pale echo of the weary look I see now.

I trace a finger along the glass over her face. "We'll get through this," I murmur, my voice barely audible. A vow. A plea. Whatever it takes to keep her.

My chest tightens, the weight of the years pressing hard against my ribs. I flick off the lamp with a practiced hand, plunging the room into darkness. Another day looms on the horizon. Another set of battles. If nothing else, I need to face them rested.

But as I lie down, the thought lingers, unwanted and persistent.

Will Tessa pull her weight, or will she be another mess for me to clean up?
The next morning greets me with sunlight slicing through the slats of the blinds and the muffled sounds of the house shifting awake. My shirt is crisp, my tie perfectly knotted, and my routine feels like the only thing tethering me to solid ground as I head down the hall.

But then Tessa rounds the corner, and the tether snaps.

She's a disheveled mess—rumpled clothes from yesterday, her hair in tangles, and dark rims smudged under her tired eyes. I would have sworn she just rolled out of bed if I didn't already know that was exactly what happened.

"Morning," she mumbles, avoiding my gaze as she sidesteps me awkwardly.

I glance toward the clock, irritation flaring. "Lauren's already had breakfast," I call out, my words sharper than intended. "She's resting now."

The guilt on her face is almost instant, but she masks it with that tight smile of hers—the one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh. Awesome. Glad she's fed," she says, too brightly. "I, uh, had a bit of a rough night. Jet lag, you know?"

Jet lag. Right. Because that's why she overslept while Lauren—my terminally ill wife—was eating breakfast alone.

I don't reply, watching her fumble for an excuse to retreat.

"Well, I should probably—uh, shower. Get presentable. Can't exactly help Lauren looking like this, huh?" She forces a laugh, one so brittle it makes my teeth clench.

Before I can say anything, she bolts, disappearing after a hurried set of excuses that barely hold together.

By the time I pull out of the driveway, I'm already regretting leaving Lauren with her.

The protective part of me—the one that's spent every day of the past two years shielding my wife from the sharp edges of the world—hates the idea of putting any of that responsibility in Tessa's unsteady hands. But what choice do I have? Work doesn't wait.

At least I know Lauren doesn't expect much from her sister. If anything, the fact that Tessa's here at all seems to matter more to Lauren than what she's actually doing.

Still, Tessa's smiles and awkward jokes don't inspire confidence—or trust.

The drive to the office is mercifully short, though it doesn't stop my mind from circling problems like a predator waiting to pounce. By the time I arrive, I've managed to shelve most of my thoughts about home, opting to focus on the mounting casework waiting for me inside.

Here, I have control. Measurable outcomes. Clear directives. None of the emotional debris that seems to come with every moment spent under the same roof as Tessa Morgan.

For once, work feels like a reprieve. Until my assistant's voice buzzes in from the desk intercom. "Mr. Moore? Your father's on line one."

I tense immediately, dread unfurling its lengthy tendrils from my gut. Of course, Marco Moretti would pick today, of all days, to get in touch.

Jaw tight, I grab the receiver. "Hello, Father."

"Adriano," he greets, his gravelly voice heavy with years of cigars and power that weighed heavier than love. "Been a while since you called your old man."

I keep my tone as level as I can. "I've been busy. Work. Lauren's health. You know how it is."

"Yes, yes, with Lauren," he says dismissively, brushing her illness aside like it's a mild inconvenience instead of a life-altering reality. "Terrible business. But she's young. She'll pull through."

His breezy tone strikes a nerve, but I bite my tongue. "What can I do for you?" I ask tightly, eager to remove myself from the conversation.

"I need a favor," he replies, and the way his tone sharpens makes my hand tighten around the receiver. "A delicate matter. Requires discretion."

Of course it does. There's always an angle with him.

I glance at the open case files on my desk, the mountain of work already piled against me. "It's not a great time," I begin carefully. "Things with Lauren—"

"It's always a bad time with you these days," he interrupts, his voice sharp enough to pierce through bone. "You're my son. Family comes first. Always."

The words land like a slap, not because of their weight, but because of how hollow they sound coming from him. Family? When? Where was this devotion when I needed it? When Mom died?

I breathe deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose. Arguing will only prolong this. "Fine," I say finally. "Let me know the details, and I'll see what I can do."

"Atta boy," comes his smug response. "I knew you'd come around. I'll be in touch."

And just like that, the line goes dead, leaving his words hanging in the air like smoke.
My day drags on in the shadow of that phone call, tension mounting in my chest. By the time I leave the office, I feel like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap.

Home isn't a reprieve anymore. It's Lauren, whose quiet pain cuts into me every second I see her struggle. And it's Tessa, who makes her presence known by stumbling through good intentions that never quite seem to land.

When I finally pull into the driveway, a strange sense of unease creeps over me before I've even opened the front door. The house feels different—charged, as though something unspoken is hovering under its roof.

I step inside, dropping my briefcase by the door. "Lauren?" I call, voice slicing through the quiet.

No response.
An instant panic rises, irrational but sharp enough to take my breath. For a wild moment, I imagine Tessa dragging Lauren somewhere unsafe, or worse—leaving us entirely.

But then I spot them.

Through the sliding glass doors off the kitchen, I see Lauren and Tessa side by side on the garden bench, heads bent close in conversation.

Relief floods through me, chased closely by irritation. Why the hell didn't anyone answer when I called? I grab the patio door, sliding it open with more force than necessary.

"What's up, ladies?"

Eyes turn toward me, startled. Whatever they were discussing is cut short, replaced by Tessa's guarded expression and Lauren's calm—far too calm—smile.

The tension crackles between us as silence settles over the garden. This house is a powder keg, and I'm not sure whose spark is going to light it first.