“We don’t know, Amanda,” Reyes said gently. “When I called his cell phone to ask why his package was sent here, he sounded completely disoriented. He told me he was sitting in the waiting area of the pediatric oncology ward. He said he couldn’t talk and hung up.”
The room faded into a blur. Pediatric oncology. Why would my husband, a man who had no children of his own, who spent every evening home with me or at the station, be sitting silently in the children’s cancer unit of a hospital downtown on his birthday—all while lying to me about being at work? 
Without another word, I turned on my heel, pushed open the office door, and walked straight out of the fire station. The balloons remained tied to the workbench next to the forgotten birthday cake. I didn’t care about the cake, the surprise, or the ruined birthday plans anymore. I needed answers.
The drive to St. Jude Regional Medical Annex felt like navigating through a thick fog. Thoughts raced through my head at a sickening speed. Had Tyler been keeping a secret from me? A past illness? A family emergency he never told me about? Or was there another family entirely—a life he lived in the shadows away from our quiet suburban home?
When I pulled into the hospital parking lot, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely put the car in park. I sprinted through the automatic glass doors, the sterile smell of antiseptic immediately washing over me. I followed the color-coded lines on the floor until I reached the third-floor pediatric wing.
The hallway was quiet, lined with colorful murals of balloons and animals meant to bring cheer to a dark place. Near the far end of the corridor, sitting on a low plastic chair outside Room 304, was a familiar figure dressed in a dark blue shirt and work boots.
It was Tyler.
He had his head resting in his hands, his broad shoulders slumped forward in complete exhaustion. He looked smaller, frail, stripped of the invincible firefighter persona he carried so effortlessly…
