To Build a Home

Chapter 9

“Derek’s scared, Stiles,” his father told him through his Bluetooth, fingers gripping the steering wheel as he headed home from the pharmacy.

“Scared of what, Dad? Isaac’s home now.”

“He’s still adjusting to being a dad. Give him some time,” he said.

“This is all new to me too and I’m not acting like a lunatic!” Stiles exclaimed.

“The adoption part, yes. But not the asthma.”

And suddenly Stiles understood what was eating away at their relationship, could see the instances that had occurred in the past four months where his father’s words were blatantly obvious, their first visit to the pediatrician the most vivid in his mind.

“You and Mom learned how to handle it, though,” Stiles said, voice slightly whiny.

“Yeah, and we were petrified when you were diagnosed. We used to take turns checking on you in the middle of the night because we were afraid you’d stop breathing or have such a bad attack that your wheezing would disappear before we could hear it.”

“Really?” Stiles asked, surprised.

“You’re in control of your asthma because you’re an adult, and you’re good at controlling Isaac’s asthma because you know what symptoms to pick up on. But being the parent of a child with asthma when you don’t have it yourself can be terrifying because it feels like one giant guessing game. That’s why Derek’s a nervous wreck when it comes to Isaac’s breathing,” his father explained. “I know it tears you up to watch him struggle, but I’m betting Derek feels even more hopeless, guilty even, because he always feels like he couldn’t see it coming when he should have.”

Stiles just took a deep breath and focused on the road, unsure of what to say in response.

“And don’t even get me started on the peanut thing,” his father groaned, trying to make the conversation light again. “I can’t keep a damn jar in the house because he always finds it and replaces it with soy butter or whatever that crap is.”

Stiles laughed softly and took another deep breath. “I think the last week has been really hard on him.”

“Well, it doesn’t help that you kept your asthma from him and then proceeded to have one of your worst attacks,” the Sheriff said.

“Yeah, wasn’t using my best judgment there,” Stiles sighed.

“He was scared then, that night when you were at the hospital, and he’s scared now. Because he’s gotta worry about it happening to not only you, but Isaac, too.”

“Fuck,” Stiles said in realization, the curse low enough that he wondered if his father had heard it through the phone.

“You created your own monster, kiddo,” he sighed.

“Yeah, so now what do I do?”

“You fix it.”

“Easier said than done,” Stiles griped. “Thanks, though. I really appreciate it.”

“Yup,” was all his father said before he disconnected the call.

“Why couldn’t I see it?” Stiles whispered to himself, the sudden silence making his mind race. He hadn’t had any Adderall in a few days and it was really starting to affect him, so he pushed play and hoped that whatever CD was in the player wasn’t Derek’s Avenged Sevenfold or Isaac’s Raffi. Thankfully, it was the Mumford and Sons that he liked to listen to on his drive home from work, the soothing sounds helping him even out his breathing as his fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel.