“What?” I splutter, because I must have misheard him.
“You’re hired.”
I stare helplessly at him. He looks at me and smiles. A nice smile, even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I haven’t used any glamor. He has to have had dozens of far more suitable candidates than me. What the hell is going on?
“You are a man,” he says.
Well, no shit. Ten out of ten for observation.
He shrugs. “It feels less like replacing her.”
His gaze drops to the floor and his shoulders droop. For the second time today, my long dead heart beats. Fuck me. My great-granddaughter had excellent taste in men. Truly phenomenal. Her husband is hotter than hell and so damn lovely it is unreal.
I can feel his love for her. It is a palpable thing hanging in the air between us. He loves her. Misses her. Morgan mourns his wife with an intensity that smolders.
The knowledge settles my determination. I’m going to take this job. I’m going to look after the kids, but now I’m also going to look after him, the very best I can. Because, lord knows he deserves it. And it is the very least I can do.A shitty pathetic gesture towards making amends for this terrible thing I have done.
And while I’m doing so, I need to keep my heart dead. I absolutely cannot fall for this man. Nope. It cannot happen. For so very many reasons. I don’t deserve him, for a start.
But most of all, because his heart is already taken.
I take a deep breath and seal my resolve into my soul.
Then I smile. “When do you want me to start?”
Chapter two
Morgan
The alarm clock rings out and scatters my dreams. I fumble for the off button and stare blearily at the ceiling. Then it hits me like a sledgehammer. Just like it has every morning for over a year.
Jennifer is dead.
The familiar ache in my chest builds and swells. Heavy and all-consuming. Grief is such a bitch. And I am so tired of it. As awful as that sounds, it is the undeniable truth. I’m so very tired. If grief would bring her back, I’d gladly suffer it. For eternity. But nothing can bring my wife back, and I’m weary of this constant pain. It is a weight that presses down on everything, pushing any happiness away and even physically slowing down my movements.
I rub my hands over my face and try to focus on what I need to do today. Think of the practicalities. One breath, then the next. Then a minute. Followed by an hour. And slowly, slowly, you get through the day.
Ned is meeting the kids today.
The thought of that nearly makes me smile. It is a glimmer of something to look forward to. He is an odd one, for sure. But I think he will be good for the kids.Someone different and new will be refreshing for all of us. Someone young, full of energy and not weighted with grief, could very well be a lifeline for us all.
I like that he didn’t gush with false platitudes. He simply said ‘okay’, when I explained our situation. He said it calmly. With no fuss. But his eyes showed how much he cares. I saw true and vivid pain in them. I suspect he has lost someone too. And I much prefer empathy to sympathy. Someone who has trod this long and arduous path and come out the other side, could be such a boon. A guiding light.
I heave myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to make the kids’ breakfast and myself some coffee. I really hope the kids like him, and this all works out. Because the final say, as always, is theirs.
Robotically, I go through the motions of making coffee. Despite the novelty and distraction of the children meeting Ned, I wonder if today is going to be a good day or a bad one?
It’s funny, in a strange way, how people think time heals everything. They expect grief to be this linear process, a journey with stages you move through, and at some point, you’re supposed to arrive at the ‘end’ and feel whole again. But grief doesn’t work like that. At least, not in my experience. It comes in waves, unpredictable and relentless. Some days are better than others, but even on the best days, it’s always there in the background, lurking like a shadow. That weight of loss has become a permanent companion, and though I try not to let it define me, it’s a part of me now.
I’ve tried, over the past year, to make things feel normal again for the kids. But the truth is, there’s no going back tothe way things were before. Every routine, every moment, feels tinged with Jennifer’s absence. Her laugh, the way she’d reach out and touch my arm when she wanted to make a point. The sound of her voice as she sang lullabies to the children. The silence left behind is deafening.
Ned is a chance, though, for a new chapter. Not a replacement for Jennifer, not even close, but maybe a way to help the kids see that life can still be good. Different, but good.
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the melancholy as I prepare for his arrival. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. I should savor it before the kids wake up.
It feels strange to think about letting someone new into our lives, but the children deserve something positive. They deserve more than just a father who’s barely holding it together.
