Lou was in the middle of a meeting when the phone rang.
Glass walls, artificial lights, voices discussing numbers and strategies, coffee cooling in disposable cups. The screen flashed with Jack's name. Lou, who almost always ignored calls during work, answered without thinking. Something tightened in her chest even before she said "hello."
"Lou," his voice trembled. "It's your mother. She had an accident."
For a few seconds, her world went silent.
The rest of the room kept going, but she no longer heard anything. The computer screen flickered. Colleagues spoke, but their voices became distant noise. Lou could only whisper:
"What?"
Jack explained the basics. The rain. The curve. Spartacus. The ambulance. The hospital. The surgery. And that "she's alive but in serious condition."
Lou didn't ask for more details. Didn't cry. She just closed her laptop firmly, stood up from the table, grabbed her coat, and left. Quietly. With dry eyes and a broken heart.
Hours later, she was on a flight from New York to Calgary. Sitting by the window, staring at the clouds outside as if she could cross them with her thoughts and already be there. Her fingers trembled slightly. She tried to read, work, sleep. But everything inside her was trapped in a single hospital room, even though she hadn't arrived yet.
She thought about her mother. Always so strong, so steady. The woman who never wavered. Who woke before the sun, who cared for everyone, who had a way of solving what seemed impossible. How could she be lying there, unconscious, hooked up to tubes, as Jack had said?
Lou felt as if the ground beneath her had given way.
—
She arrived at the hospital early afternoon, backpack on her shoulders and dark tired eyes.
Jack was standing in the hallway, holding his hat. When he saw Lou, he tried to smile. But it was a painful, broken smile.
"She's still in there," he said without beating around the bush.
Lou didn't answer. She just walked past him and entered.
The room was silent. The sound of machines was almost hypnotic: beep… beep… beep…
Marion was pale. Tubes in her nose, bandages on her face. Her hair tied carelessly. So different from the woman Lou knew — strong, determined, capable of taming any horse or any situation.
Lou stopped by the bed. Looked at her mother for a few seconds. And then, for the first time since she got the news, she broke down.
She knelt beside the stretcher, pressed her face against her mother's hand, and cried silently. Like a daughter who suddenly realizes she is no longer the adult when her mother falls ill.
"I came, Mom," she whispered. "I left everything. New York can wait. Because you… you can't leave."
She ran her hand over Marion's arm, as if she could warm that still body. She stayed there for a long time, just feeling. Just existing beside her.
—
In the waiting room, Jack, Ty, and Amy waited for her.
When Lou came out, her eyes were red, but her face was different. No trace of the high-heeled executive remained. She was the Lou from Heartland. The daughter Lou. The Lou who remembered her mother combing her hair silently on days when the world seemed too hard.
Amy went to her and hugged her.
"She's going to come back, Lou," she said in a soft voice.
Lou took a deep breath and wiped tears with her sleeve.
"I know. Because she doesn't know how to leave anyone behind."
They sat down together.
Ty kept his gaze down. He hadn't spoken much since the accident. Guilt seemed to live inside him like a hungry animal, and even when they said he saved Marion's life, he still carried the weight of having been there. Of having seen everything. Of having felt the moment destiny turned upside down.
"How's the ranch?" Lou asked.
"Quiet," Amy answered. "Spartacus still limps. And he seems to miss her. The other horses too. Even Rose stayed still, staring at the stable for hours."
Lou nodded slowly.
"I can stay. As long as I need. Manhattan meetings can wait."
"We'll manage," Jack muttered. "But it's good to know you're here."
Lou smiled sadly. Because being there was what hurt the most… and what mattered the most.
—
At night, Lou stayed alone with her mother.
She brought a pillow, a blanket, a cup of tea. Sat beside her, crossed her legs, rested her head on the edge of the bed.
"I remember when you taught me to ride a bike," she began. "You said: 'The ground isn't the enemy; it's just the place where we learn to get up.'"
She laughed, without joy.
"Well, Mom… I guess now you're the one who fell. But I'm here. And I'll remind you how to get up, if I have to."
She closed her eyes.
Let the silence fill them.
From time to time, she touched Marion's hand. Like holding a very thin thread that still kept her in this world.
And there, in the dark, with the sound of the monitors and the wind hitting the hospital window, Lou thought that maybe loving someone is this: staying.
Even when everything seems suspended.
Even when the other can't hear you.
Even when the world insists on going on without you.
Because deep down…
Hearts that love never go unconscious at the same time.