Recipe for a Broken Heart

Chapter 6

Chapter 6 — What Family Costs

Camille learned about her mother's doctor's appointment the way she learned most bad news lately — sideways, by accident, from a phone left unlocked on the kitchen counter.

She hadn't meant to look. She'd only reached for her mother's phone to check the time, and the screen had lit up with a reminder notification about a follow-up appointment at the clinic downtown. She stood there a moment too long, feeling the familiar cold drop in her stomach that came whenever the ground under her family shifted without warning.

"Ma," she said that evening, trying to keep her voice light, failing. "What's the appointment on Thursday?"

Her mother's face did something complicated — surprise, then guilt, then resignation. "It's nothing. Just a check-up."

"Ma."

"It's my knee, Camille. The old injury. It's been acting up." Her mother waved a hand like she could bat the concern away. "I didn't want you worrying. You've got enough going on with the new job."

"You not telling me things is what makes me worry more, not less." Camille sat down across from her, taking her mother's hand before she could pull it back. "How long has your knee been bothering you?"

"A few weeks."

"A few weeks."

"It's fine, baby. Really." Her mother squeezed her hand, though the tightness around her eyes told a different story.

Camille said nothing more, but she did the math quietly later, rearranging her own budget to cover the gap she'd spotted on an insurance statement left on the counter.

She hadn't meant for any of it to bleed into work. But Thursday morning, distracted, she missed an error that would have been obvious on any other day — a decimal point out of place, inflating a shipping estimate by nearly triple what it should have been.

Étienne caught it before it went out. He called her into his office just past noon, and this time there was no dry humor waiting for her, just a flat, unreadable expression.

"This would have cost us a client," he said, sliding the spreadsheet across the desk. "Fortunately, I checked it before it was sent."

"I know. I'm sorry. I caught it too late."

"I am not asking for an apology. I am asking what happened. You do not make careless mistakes, Camille. I have watched you for two weeks. This is not who you are." Something in his gaze was softer than his tone. "So something happened. What?"

"It's nothing. Family stuff. I'll manage it."

"Family stuff does not usually put a decimal point in the wrong place." He leaned back, giving her space rather than closing in. "You do not have to tell me the details. But if something is affecting your work, I would rather know than watch you make a worse mistake next time."

Camille hesitated, old instincts warning her against showing weakness to anyone who signed her paycheck. But something about the way he was looking at her loosened something in her chest.

"My mother has a knee injury that's gotten worse. There's an appointment, some tests, probably physical therapy. It's more expensive than we budgeted for, and I've been doing math in my head instead of paying attention to my actual job."

Étienne nodded, like she'd handed him information rather than a confession. "Thank you for telling me. Take the afternoon, if you need it. Go with her. The spreadsheet will still be here tomorrow."

"I can't just leave in the middle of the day."

"You can. I am telling you that you can." Something almost gentle crept into his voice. "I do not run this office by punishing people for having families, Camille. If that is what you are used to, I am sorry for it. It is not how I intend to operate."

"Thank you," she managed finally. "That's — thank you."

"Go," he said simply, turning back to his screen.

She left his office feeling unsteady, unsure how to respond to kindness this direct after months of bracing herself against every possible disappointment.

That afternoon, sitting beside her mother in a waiting room that smelled like antiseptic and old magazines, Camille found herself thinking about Étienne more than she wanted to admit — not the sharp, composed executive from the interview, but the man who'd told her to go take care of her family and meant it.

The doctor's news, when it finally came, was manageable — a partial tear that had worsened with years of standing shifts, treatable with physical therapy, no surgery required. Camille took careful notes on her phone while her mother nodded along with the stoicism of a woman who'd spent decades absorbing bad news without letting her children see the weight of it.

"See," her mother said afterward, in the elevator down. "Not so dramatic. I told you."

"You told me it was probably nothing. It's not nothing, Ma. It's a partial tear."

"It's a manageable injury. There's a difference." Her mother softened. "I didn't want you carrying one more thing. You already carry enough."

"I'd rather carry the truth than get blindsided by a notification on your phone. Let me help, Ma. Actually help."

Her mother's eyes went glassy, and she pulled Camille into a brief, fierce hug right there in the elevator. "When did you get so grown up," she murmured.

"Somewhere around the time I started paying rent," Camille said, and her mother laughed, wet and surprised.

By the time Camille got back to the office the next morning, the spreadsheet error had been quietly corrected, no lingering coldness in Étienne's manner. He simply nodded at her near the coffee machine and asked, with what she was beginning to recognize as genuine interest, how the appointment had gone.

"Manageable," she said. "Physical therapy, no surgery."

"Good. I am glad." And that seemed to be the end of it — no further probing, no lingering on a moment that had, for her, felt significant enough to replay half the night. He simply returned to his coffee, leaving Camille standing there wondering why she felt oddly disappointed that he hadn't said more, and even more unsettled by the fact that she'd wanted him to.