Was there even a moment, or was it just a slow death?
The glowing clock on the dashboard reads 6:38. I can't just stay here forever, so I start driving mindlessly.
My body seems to know where it wants to go.
Twenty minutes later, I pull off to the side of the road and walk the short way to the overlook—our spot.
Atlas and I used to spend hours here when we were teenagers. It’s just a small area under a patch of trees that offers a complete view of Mercy Ridge.
This is our place.
My eyes briefly glance over to the tallest Maple tree, its vibrant orange and red leaves stark against the darkening sky.
Our initials are carved into the bark:A + W,encased in a heart. Atlas had done it after we had talked about our future, about marrying as soon as we could, about always staying together no matter what. I was unknowingly six weeks pregnant with Liam.
When's the last time we came here?
Years.
Whenever life got too hard, whenever we needed a moment to ourselves, we would call his parents to babysit the boys and Atlas would bring us here.
He would toss a blanket over one shoulder and me over the other. We'd cuddle under the trees, talking and kissing until the stars came out.
Back then, after Noah was born, I was so tired from breastfeeding, from caring for two boys, that I'd fall asleepagainst his chest to the sound of him whispering about how much he loved me.
I miss that. I miss my husband.
The husband that used to be so warm, sweet, and protective. Not this cold, unfeeling, disinterested man he's turned into lately. A stranger who barely lets me speak before he's running out the door and doesn't answer my texts. This person who sends my calls to voicemail and will walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to him.
I grab a blanket from my trunk, lay it on the ground, and lean against our maple.
And I think.
I think about the way my chest has felt cinched tight with anxiety for weeks.
I think about how I clean obsessively now, not because a clean space brings me happiness, but because scrubbing keeps my hands busy, and if my hands are busy, that keeps me from falling apart.
I think about how I've been skipping meals and forgetting whether I've even eaten that day because my appetite has completely vanished.
I think about how I plaster a smile on my face in front of the boys when all I want to do is cry.
I think about how I give and give and give, pouring myself into tending to everyone else's needs until there's nothing left for me. Even then, it still never feels like enough.
And I think about how I can't go on like this.
It's not just about me, it's about myboys.
Liam, who looks just like his father at that age with unruly dark hair and warm brown eyes. He's the tallest in his grade and broad-shouldered. He's my little basketball star, who I usually have to drag inside from our driveway hoop.
"One more shot, Mama," he always says when I call him in for dinner.
One more shot which, of course, becomes ten more. I let him, because he flashes those puppy-dog eyes at me, hisdaddy's gift, and I melt every time.
My sweet baby Noah is all me with his red hair and freckled cheeks. He watchesThe Joy of Paintinglike it's his religion, narrating his own paintings in his little, perfect Bob Ross imitation.
"Happy little trees, Mama," he tells me, so full of joy it makes my chest ache.
Noah feels everything deeply and finds comfort in expressing himself through his art. He looks up to his older brother so much, following him around like a little shadow, and Liam will always slow down so Noah can keep up.
