I leaned over Mom, memorizing every line of her face. “Hey, Mom,” I whispered.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled. “My darling girl.”
I wanted to say something witty, make a joke to lighten the tension. Instead, the words tumbled out. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be alone again.”
For a moment, I saw a spark of the vibrant woman who’d raised me. “Never...alone,” she rasped. “My brave...girl.”
Tears blurred my vision. “I love you, Mom. I love you so much. I’ll always love you. Always be thankful you found me, saw me. Wanted me.”
Her fingers twitched in mine. “Love...you...always.”
We sat together, my hand over hers, but no more words came. She was peaceful, breathing more deeply than she had in days. I don’t know how long I was there before the monitors wailed for the last time, but I remembered Gunnar holding me as orderlies wheeled my mother away. I sobbed against his shoulder.
The next few days passed in a haze of grief, soul-deep fatigue I couldn’t sleep away, and logistics. So many decisions to be made now. Gunnar ensconced me in my house and set up his computer at the seldom-used dining room table, where he handled funeral arrangements and fielded calls from well-wishers along with his seemingly never-ending workload. I moved through it all like a ghost, barely registering the sympathetic touches and murmured condolences from him, let alone Vivian, who’d gotten in touch with me through Gunnar while we waited for news about my mother. She’d brought the rest of the CATS to sit with me, and some of the neighbors had stopped by as well to offer their condolences.
The morning of the funeral dawned surprisingly crisp and clear for a day in early November. I stood before the mirror, fumbling with the buttons of my black dress. My reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and pale.
Gunnar knocked. “Zaila? You decent?”
“Come in,” I called, cringing. My voice was rough from crying.
Gunnar entered, looking somber in a dark suit. His eyes softened. “Here, let me help.” He fastened the last few buttons. “There,” he said, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders. “You look beautiful.”
I let out a laugh as our eyes met in the mirror. “I look like hell.”
“Hey.” He turned me toward him and tilted my chin up. “You may be tired and grief-stricken, but you’re exquisite to me.” He brushed his lips against my cheek. “We’ll get through this together.”
I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his unwavering presence. “Promise?”
“What did I tell you before? Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”
Sometime later, the church was a sea of black, faces blurring as I made my way down the aisle. Mom’s casket loomed ahead, draped in her favorite quilt—the one she’d used on the couch most evenings. Gunnar had remembered that little detail, and his thoughtfulness left me weak all over again, buckling my knees.
Gunnar’s hand settled at the small of my back, steadying me. We took our seats in the front pew, and I gripped his fingers like a lifeline all through the service that passed in a fog of hymns and eulogies. When it was my turn to speak, I stood on shaky legs.
“My mom...” I began, voice cracking. I looked out at the crowd, panic rising. Then my eyes found Gunnar’s. He kept his gaze on mine as he nodded, and suddenly, I could breathe again. “My mom was my hero,” I continued. “She taught me strength, kindness, and how to make a the best spaetzle—a recipe she perfected because she knew I loved it.” A ripple of laughter. “But most of all, she taught me love. How to give it freely, and how to accept it when it’s offered.”
My gaze locked again with Gunnar’s. “She showed me that family isn’t only blood. I mean, I was adopted—not hers biologically—but I always knew she and Dad loved me better than anyone else could have. She stood by me when I made decisions, listened when I didn’t like the consequences that came from my choices, and held me up when I was knocked off my feet. I will miss her just like I miss my father, every single day.”
I wobbled down the stairs and back to Gunnar’s side, where he hugged me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “She’d be so proud of you,” he whispered.
The reception was at a nearby restaurant—a fancy one because Gunnar was friendly with the executive chef. She had shut down for the day. Ida Jane, Keelie, and Millie dealt with the staff so I could sit at a table, not even pretending to pick at my food.
“Thank you,” I said, catching Keelie on her way past.
She squeezed my hand and offered a smile. “No need to thank a friend for helping out.”
Fresh tears blurred my eyes, but my smile was genuine. “I’m flattered.”
“Pssh. I’m just telling the truth. Now, let your man take care of you.” She leaned in closer. “It’s a driving need with these guys. Give him that.”
I hugged her and then Ida Jane as she bustled past, looking for one of the waiters. She was on a mission to get another pitcher of tea for the table where Mom’s bridge friends sat with the Wildcatters huge D-man, Maxim Dolov, explaining the ins and outs of the game to him.
“He’s gonna turn into a bridge-playin’ terror,” Ida Jane murmured. She shook her head. “That man can’t do anything halfway.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing, shocked but also thrilled that I still could.
“Want some water?” Gunnar asked, appearing at my elbow with a glass.
