“I know all your friends,” she sasses.
I pull up by the oak tree where I usually park. “Apparently not, huh?”
“Are you dating, Mom?”
I put the van in park and turn to face my very blunt daughter. “No, Isabella. I’m not dating Mr. Holden.”
“Are you dating someone else?” She opens her door, quickly opening the back one to help Vero out of her seat. Bella’s so helpful, the best big sister. It makes my heart so happy to know they have each other.
“I’m not dating anyone,” I reply, grabbing the bags to bring inside. She holds her sister, who was sleeping a second ago but now is wide-eyed, looking at the swing.
“Mama,” she whispers, pulling a smile from my face.
This man has no clue what he did for us, for my family. I was trying really hard to hold it together until that moment.
“Then why are you smiling like that?” Bella asks, an I-know-everything look written all over her face.
“Stop asking nonsense questions and help me with these bags.” They’re looking at the swing now, so I sigh. “Fine. Go play on the swing while I start dinner.”
Vero giggles in Bella’s hands, and together, they walk to the wooden swing hanging from the tree branch.
So many parts of this place hold memories. Memories of the happy and fulfilled life we lived together. Memories of dreams achieved and many that died through the years. So many spaces here are special, holding not only memories, but truly breathing life into a lot of pivotal moments in our lives, mine and the girls’. But the swing is extra special; I feel closer to him there, and so do they.
I stare at my girls, Vero holding on tight to the fresh ropes and Bella pushing her carefully. She knows Vero’s grip is not the strongest, but she still lets her try and doesn’t coddle her. She does better than I do. If it were up to me, I would bubble wrap that kid and not let her try anything that could harm her. She’s the last thing I have of Nick, and it wounds me at a molecular level to think she might get hurt.
But holding her back won’t help her. Not letting her try won’t let her grow. And as much as I want her to be my baby forever,babies don’t keep. It’s my job as her mom to help her spread her wings and not clip them due to my own fears.
I step onto the porch, ready to go into the house and start dinner, my literal least favorite chore. Not because of the cooking; I love that part. No, it’s more because of the choice. If someone would have told me one of the worst things about growing up was the never ending cycle of figuring out what to cook for dinner, I would have never believed them.
They would’ve been right, though.
I absolutely hate playing thewhat to cook for dinner game.
Nick was incredible at that, making menus for the week, keeping it exciting. He spent years being the only one who cooked because he wanted me to rest. Every time I got a negative test, or my period, the bright painful reminder I wasn’t pregnant yet again, he fed me comfort food. It was his love language.
There’s a bag by the door.
Huh? Maybe I didn’t notice Holden leaving supplies there when he left, but that doesn’t look like supplies. It looks like food.
I approach the bag as if something will come jumping out. Nothing does, but there is a note on the receipt from my favorite taco place.
Let me take care of this part of your day. Enjoy being a mom tonight. From, Holden
All I’ve done today is cry at the generosity of this man. I take the bag and the other million ones I was hauling inside and set them on the table. Opening the containers to see the obscene amount of food this man brought, I carefully serving the three of us—first Vero’s, so it cools down by the time she gets in. That little girl loves food, and has zero patience when it comes to waiting for it.
I look out the window, and my heart tugs with conflicting emotions—grateful, happy my girls have each other, that they’rehappy, especially when Vero’s laughter echoes loudly through the yard and bounces off the window. Or when Bella’s smile is permanently painted on her face as she plays with her sister. They’re what I hold on to when the overwhelming second emotion comes, sorrow hitting me harder than a freight train.
Nick’s not here, and he won’t ever get to enjoy these moments—dinner with us, watching our girls growing up together, laughing at their jokes, filling up with pride at how far they’ve come. It’s almost like I can’t let myself enjoy the happy moments without the guilt of him missing them.
What is the name of this feeling, the longing for something I know I can never have again? The feeling of yearning for a love that engulfed me completely and wrapped me in his arms, knowing I’ll never get to know that kind of love again? The kind that feels like the sun shining bright over a meadow on a cloudless day. The kind that, when the clouds come, you feel its absence immediately.
Sorrow seems so simple, and grief doesn’t quite define it. I need something to describe this feeling of pride for the life we built while mourning the life we lost. I can’t even be mad at the hands who took him away from us, because he was so broken, so torn apart, he didn’t know there was another way out.
Who do I get to be mad at then? It can’t be Nick; he was at work, doing what he was made to do. He had a gift, the gift of teaching and reaching kids nobody else could, and maybe that’s what hurts the most. He died at the hands of one of the students he fought for the most. There was nothing the system could’ve done, because on paper, he had the perfect life, when in reality, that was a lie.
In reality, that kid was so destroyed, he wanted to end it all. End the jokes, end the lack of love, end the pain.
Except, he started a different kind of nightmare instead.
