Emma
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Daddy is back yet?”
I blink myself awake, the gray-blue light of early morning slipping through the boys’ checkered curtains. Easton is already up, sitting in his bed with the framed photo of him and Steven clutched in his hands. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks still wet.
Without thinking, I climb into his twin-sized bed and wrap my arms around him. His tears soak into my shirt as he hugs me back. Shaky breaths and quiet sniffles come and go while I search for the nerve to answer his question.
But I can’t.
My silence must be answer enough, because his breathing breaks into whimpers as he squeezes me tighter. His arms and hands are chilled, like he’s been sitting on top of his covers way too long.
“What if he never comes back?” Easton chokes out.
His voice, though soft, is shattering, sending a sharp ache spearing straight through my chest. This is what it’s like to see your child heartbroken, truly heartbroken. A sob claws its way up my throat as I hold my son, and it takes everything in me not to let it loose.
“It’s going to be okay.” The words taste like acid, hard to swallow. “It’s only been a few days. We have to give it time.”
He sniffles and wipes his nose on my shirtbefore looking up at me. His eyes, a dewy green version of my own, still look like Steven. And they’re so young and innocent, so hopeful. It’s all enough to rip me in two. I wipe his tear-stained cheeks and kiss the top of his head. His dark curls brush my face as they point wildly in every direction.
“Do you think Uncle Liam was able to help him?”
“I hope so.” I force a smile at the hopeful lilt in his voice, ignoring theunclepart entirely. That must be a new development.
“Can I go wake him up?” he asks conspiratorially, grinning from ear to ear.
“Why don’t I do it this time? You can get your brother up.” I nod toward Sawyer, who is still asleep in his bed across the room.
Easton jumps out of bed eagerly and leaps into Sawyer’s, disregarding all waking etiquette. The picture frame topples loudly to the floor as they begin their morning brawl. I scoop it up along with the pile of blankets I slept on and smile down at the photo.
It was taken at Disney last year. Easton on Steven’s shoulders and Sawyer preoccupied with Goofy in the background. I was pregnant enough that I got to sit and enjoy the food while Steven rode the rides. We barely spoke. Being managed by six-year-old Mickey professionals made adult conversations difficult. But it was a happy memory, a thing I sometimes forget is possible.
Joy ripples through me like sunshine as the memory flashes back: our last family vacation together. The last time Steven and I had fun together.
We weren’t perfect, but we were trying.
The grunts and groans of the boys wrestling fades as I head toward our bedroom to find Steven. But he isn’t there. The bed is made, and the lights are on, with no sign of him. I check the bathroom then peek into Josie’s room. Empty.
I reach the kitchen and find him sitting at the kitchen island,scrolling on his phone.
“Good morning,” I say, tightening my robe around my waist.
“Morning.” He stands, setting his phone to the side. “How did you sleep?”
I wince at the pain settling into my neck and lower back. “The floor isn’t meant for near forty-year-olds. How about you?”
“I really wish you would’ve taken the bed.”
“Absolutely not.” I wave him off and head to the steaming pot of coffee he’s brewed. “Thank you,” I say, filling two cups and handing him one.
“I slept horribly knowing you were on the floor in the boys’ room.”
“I’ll recover. It’s nothing new.”
“Do we do that?” he asks, like the idea of sleeping on the floor is earth shattering.
