Chapter 9 - The Verdict
Two days later, Dr. Alan Vance sat across from Isaac in the ground-floor study.
The elderly physician closed Catherine’s chart, removed his wire-rimmed glasses, and rubbed his eyes before looking up at the CEO.
“Her vitals have stabilized, Isaac,” Dr. Vance said calmly. “The fall was a syncopal episode—low blood pressure combined with fatigue. It was bound to happen eventually.”
“Is it dangerous for her to continue physical activity?” Isaac asked, his voice deadpan, guarded.
“Of course it’s dangerous,” Dr. Vance replied bluntly. “Living is dangerous. Staying in bed until her heart stops is entirely safe, but it’s not living.”
Isaac leaned back in his leather chair, interlocking his fingers over his desk. “Ruth told me what happened on the weekend. She baked a cake with the housekeeper.”
A faint smile touched Dr. Vance’s lips. “Mrs. Vance tried that recipe once. It’s heavy enough to sink a battleship, but it tastes like heaven. Your mother enjoyed it?”
“She ate two slices.”
“Good.” Dr. Vance stood up, buttoning his gray wool jacket. “Listen to me, Isaac. I can write prescriptions for medications, oxygen tanks, and specialized mattresses. But I cannot prescribe joy. I cannot bottle up a sense of purpose. Whatever that young girl on your staff is doing down in that kitchen—keep doing it. Because for the first time in six months, your mother’s neurological scans showed an increase in cognitive engagement. She’s fighting because she has something worth waking up for.”
After the doctor left, Isaac walked slowly out of the study and down the sunlit hallway toward the kitchen.
The house was quiet, save for the low murmur of conversation coming from the back patio.
Isaac pushed open the glass French doors and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.
Catherine was sitting comfortably in a cushioned patio chair under the maple trees, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Megan sat on the grass beside her basket of knitting yarn, showing her how to fix a dropped stitch.
When Catherine saw him walking across the lawn, she smiled—a clear, bright expression without a trace of yesterday’s fear.
“Are you here to confiscate my knitting needles, Inspector?” she teased gently.
Isaac stopped beside her chair. He looked down at his mother, then over at Megan, who was watching him with a quiet, challenging neutrality.
For the first time in his life, Isaac Mercer didn't try to solve the problem with a corporate contract, a medical directive, or a financial transfer.
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He simply pulled up a chair, sat down between them on the grass, and held out his hand.
“Only if you teach me how to drop a stitch first.”
