Cure- House, MD

Bonus Chapter: House's Perspective

The backyard hasn't changed much over the years. The swing set is still there, though it's seen better days. The grass is patchy, the way it always is, thanks to me refusing to water it because, as I've told Evelyn countless times, "It's grass. It'll figure it out." She didn't buy that argument. Neither did the HOA, which she reminded me about with her patented eyebrow raise. So, there's now an old sprinkler shoved into the corner of the yard. It leaks, of course, because everything in this house does, but Evelyn still insists on using it.

She's out there now, pushing our daughter on the swing. Evelyn's got this effortless thing about her—making motherhood look easy, like she was born for it. She wasn't. None of us were. But you wouldn't know that watching her now, with her hair half-tied back and that ridiculous sweatshirt she always wears because it has pockets big enough for everything. She's talking to our kid, probably telling some story that's equal parts hilarious and inappropriate, judging by the way our daughter's laughing. Loud, unfiltered, and free.

It's a nice sound. A little too nice. The kind of sound that makes me pause at the window with my coffee, trying to figure out when exactly this became my life.

Let's rewind a little. Evelyn and I got married in 2010. It was a whole thing—flowers, vows, lots of wine, and one incredibly dramatic toast from Wilson that I'll never let him live down. Evelyn was radiant, of course, walking down the aisle like she owned the place. I was me—limping, sarcastic, wondering if this was some elaborate prank. She hyphenated her last name, which I still think is lame. Moss-House. Really? She had the chance to fully embrace the power of Dr. House and decided to keep some of her "identity" intact. I told her it was a terrible branding choice, but she just rolled her eyes and kissed me at the altar.

Fast forward to the kitchen meltdown of 2012. That's what I call it, anyway. Evelyn, standing there, holding up a positive pregnancy test like it was a death sentence. "This is it," she'd said, pacing back and forth. "My life is over." She was crying—ugly crying, the kind where your face turns red, and your words come out in gasps. I couldn't help myself.

"You're being dramatic," I told her, leaning against the counter. "You'll be fine."

She glared at me, of course. "You're not the one who has to grow a human."

Fair point. But, as always, I was right. She's more than fine—she's phenomenal. Watching her with our daughter has been... unexpected. She's got this patience, this energy, this way of making everything an adventure. She's the kind of mom that makes other moms look bad. Not that she cares. Evelyn's too busy making macaroni necklaces and organizing scavenger hunts to notice anyone else.

And then there's the kid. Our kid. The only one who actually likes me. She's three now, and she looks just like me, poor thing. Same sharp features, same piercing blue eyes, same tendency to smirk like she knows something you don't. But she's also got Evelyn's warmth, her determination, her ability to make you feel like the center of the universe. It's a weird combination, seeing yourself reflected in someone so small, so innocent.

She clings to my leg every morning when I leave for work, begging me to stay. "Don't go, Daddy," she says, her little hands gripping my pants like I'm about to walk off a cliff. And I always linger, pretending I'm looking for my keys or making up some excuse about why I can't leave just yet. I don't know why she likes me so much—I'm grumpy, impatient, and not great at answering questions like "Why is the sky blue?" But she does. She adores me. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't get to me.

My health, on the other hand, isn't quite so adorable. My liver's been on strike for years now, thanks to my old friends, Vicodin and Whiskey. I tried quitting the pills once, for her, for them, but it didn't stick. The pain doesn't go away, and without the pills, it's like my body's staging a mutiny. I still try to keep it under control, but "control" is a generous term. Evelyn knows I'm not exactly in peak condition, but she doesn't know the full picture.