No Second Chances

Emily

Ten years of veterinary training had taught me patience, but this calf was taking its sweet time.

"Easy girl, we're almost there," I whispered, stroking Belle's flank. "Your baby's going to be just fine."

The contraction came hard, and I guided the calf's shoulders through. Blood and amniotic fluid stained my jeans, but I didn't care. This was what I'd trained for—life coming into the world, messy and beautiful and real.

The calf slipped into my waiting hands, slick and perfect. I cleared its airways and watched those first shuddering breaths. Belle turned her massive head to nuzzle her baby, and something tight in my chest loosened.

Another successful delivery for the Thompson farm records.

My phone buzzed against my hip. Jack's name flashed on the screen.

"Emily, drop whatever you're doing." His voice cut through the barn's peaceful atmosphere like a blade. "This is about our family's future."

I glanced at the newborn calf, now struggling to stand on wobbly legs. "Jack, I'm in the middle of—"

"Now, Emily. Come home now."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.

In eight years of marriage, Jack had never used that tone with me. Not even when the corn prices tanked last spring.

I made quick notes in my work log, cleaned up, and gave Belle one last pat. "You did good, mama."

The drive home took fifteen minutes through rain-slicked country roads.

I kicked off my muddy boots on the porch and pushed through the kitchen door. The scene inside stopped me cold.

A woman sat in my chair at our kitchen table.

Auburn hair caught the lamplight as she leaned over Noah's homework, her voice soft and melodic. My eight-year-old son hung on her every word, his inhaler forgotten beside his math worksheet.

"That's perfect, Noah," the woman was saying. "You're so smart."

Jack stood by the coffee maker, his shoulders rigid.

He turned when I entered.

"Emily." He cleared his throat. "This is Chloe Martin. Tom Martin's daughter."

I knew the name. The Martins owned the farm that bordered our eastern pasture. But I'd never met their daughter—she'd left for college years ago, according to town gossip.

Chloe looked up with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

She was beautiful in that polished way some women managed effortlessly, even in our rural county. Something about her face tugged at my memory, but I couldn't place it.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Emily," she said. "I've heard wonderful things."

Noah beamed at her. "Chloe's been helping me with fractions! She makes them fun."

"That's... nice." I looked between Jack and this stranger at my table. "Jack, what's this about?"

He pulled out a manila folder, his movements careful and deliberate. "Chloe's been diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. As Christians and neighbors, it's our duty to help."

I stared at the medical documents he spread across our kitchen table—Mayo Clinic letterhead, official stamps, a doctor's signature I couldn't quite make out in the lamplight.

"I'm so sorry," I said automatically, though something felt wrong.

"The treatment costs are... significant," Jack continued. "And Chloe needs somewhere stable to recover between chemotherapy sessions. The Martin place is forty minutes from the county hospital, but we're only fifteen minutes away—that could mean life or death if she has complications during treatment. Tom's getting too old to handle the round-the-clock care she needs."

Noah grabbed Chloe's hand. "You're so brave! Can you teach me to be strong like you?"

"Oh, sweetie." Chloe's voice broke just right, tears gathering in her eyes. "You're already stronger than you know."

I wanted to protest, to ask why this was the first I'd heard of any of this. But Noah was looking at Chloe like she'd hung the moon, and Jack's jaw was set in that stubborn line I knew too well.

"Jack, this is our home," I said carefully. "Shouldn't we discuss this privately first?"

"There's nothing to discuss." Jack's tone brooked no argument. "It's already decided."

An hour later, I stood in our bedroom doorway, watching Jack gather my things from the dresser. My grandmother's silver brush set, the romance novels I read before sleep, the framed photo of Noah's first day of school.

"She needs the master bathroom for her medications and treatments," Jack explained without meeting my eyes. "The guest room will be more comfortable for you anyway."

Chloe appeared beside me, leaning against the doorframe like she belonged there.

Up close, I could see the careful makeup, the styled hair. Strange choices for someone supposedly battling cancer.

"I'm so sorry to cause trouble, Emily," she said, her voice weak and breathy. "I know how hard this must be for you. Most people who haven't faced death can't understand what it's like to need help."

The implication stung. I'd spent years helping animals fight for their lives, but apparently that didn't count.

Later, after I'd relocated to the narrow guest room bed, I heard Noah's door open. Footsteps in the hallway—too light to be Jack's.

"Tell me about the time you rode the wild mustang," Noah's voice drifted through the thin walls.

Chloe's laugh was like silver bells. "Well, it was during my first round of chemotherapy. I was so weak I could barely stand, but I saw this beautiful wild horse..."

I pressed my face into the pillow.

When had Noah stopped asking me for bedtime stories? When had "Mom" become boring compared to tales of adventure and bravery in the face of cancer?

"Real courage," Chloe was saying, "is caring for others even when you're suffering. Like how your mom takes care of all those animals, even when she's tired."

The words should have been kind, but they felt like a mockery. I was being replaced in my own home.

"Good night, Noah," I whispered.

Sleep wouldn't come. At eleven, I gave up and slipped out to the barn, flashlight in hand. I'd left my veterinary supplies scattered across the workbench after Belle's delivery.

As I cleaned and organized, muscle memory taking over, I found myself thinking about Chloe's medical documents.

In my years of coordinating with human medical professionals for zoonotic disease cases, I'd seen hundreds of official documents. This one felt... manufactured.

I sat in the barn's darkness, listening to the rain and the soft sounds of sleeping animals. Through the kitchen window, I could see Chloe moving around our house like she owned it.

Ten years of veterinary training had taught me to recognize when something was wrong. The signs were all there—inconsistent symptoms, convenient timing, behavior that didn't match the supposed diagnosis.

I typed a text to Dr. Susan: [Are you still in touch with anyone at Mayo Clinic? I might need a favor.]