Her lips purse slightly, looking like she wants to, but doesn't quite believe me.
That's okay,I tell myself.She doesn't have to believe me right now. I'll just keep showing up until she does.
"You really are my best friend, you know that right?" she asks, still looking troubled.
"And you're mine, pretty girl," I say, smiling brightly at her. She finally gives me a genuine smile and the knot in my stomach loosens slightly. With so much unknown ahead of her, it makes sense that she needs a little reassurance of something sure, something constant.
I'm not anything you need to worry about, pretty girl. I'm a lifetime guarantee.
Chapter 31
Abby
Thirty Eight Weeks
“There we go,” I mutter to myself, tying a bow around the final curtain panel. Stepping back, I do a slow spin, admiring thefinallyfinished nursery.
It’s exactly how I pictured it–pale greens and yellows combined with warm wood finishes that give the room a soft glow. The green velvet couch that was replaced by the couch bed is against the wall opposite of the crib Jack built, with a bookshelf (also built by Jack) tucked between the arm of the sofa and the corner of the wall. The nursery glider sits close to the crib, bathed in the warm light of the sunset. The quilt Granny made is folded neatly on the crib mattress, directly below the hanging mobile of delicate fabric butterflies.
My hands rest folded on top of my bump in a brief moment of serenity when it happens–a rush of grief so strong it nearly brings me to my knees.
In the blink of an eye, everything suddenly looks wrong. Not because it isn’t beautiful, or carefully curated, but because Aaron had nothing to do with it. Would he hate this color? Would hehave picked a different mobile? Why didn’t I think about the little touches he would have added?
My stomach rolls and bile threatens to rise in my throat. Old feelings resurface against my will, and it’s all I can do not to scream. I look at the handmade quilt, but instead of warmth and gratitude, all I can feel is bitterness. For the first time in years, I think about my mother and hate her for not being here. That quilt should have been made byher.
I look at the crib and cringe with guilt. I think back to just a few weeks ago, watching Jack build the beautiful piece of furniture.
And thinking about how beautifulheis.
How did I possibly think I could lay my daughter down to sleep in a bed built by any man other than Aaron? And how could I possibly look at anyone else the way I looked at him?
My gaze flickers to the couch—my beloved velvet couch, the singular demand I made of Aaron when we began looking at furniture for the house–and my face heats with fury. It shouldn’t be in here. I never should have moved it out of the living room. Especially because I moved it to make room for a more comfortable place for Jack to sleep.
Jack, who was Aaron’s best friend. Jack, who isnotmy husband,notthe father of my baby,notmy partner.
I never should have involved him in any of this.
I stumble backwards, desperate to get out of this room as quickly as possible.
It's finally here—the feelings I've been desperate to avoid, the truth I haven't wanted to admit. I tried to ignore it, secretly hoping it wouldn't happen. But reality has caught up with me.
This isn’t some cute or exciting or wholesome adventure with my patchwork friend-family. I’ve let myself live in complete delusion, because the reality is cold and harsh and lonely. I haven’t wanted to face it, and I let everyone enable my avoidance.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—the same mirror I stared into when I had to accept the truth about Little One—and force myself to accept another truth.
“You are doing this on your own,” I whisper harshly. “You are a widow. A single mom. And no amount of pretending is going to change that.”
Tears of anger streak down my cheeks, still flushed with anger.
“As much as you love them, your friends are not your family. Your family broke the day Aaron died. And you can’t fix that. Get that through your head. And let him go.”
It's a mark of how fucked up things have gotten that I don't even know which 'him' I'm talking about.
I gag violently, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach empties itself of its contents. When I finish vomiting, I sit on the cold floor, wiping cold, clammy sweat from my brow before resting my forehead on my knees.
Alone. That’s what I’ve been for nine months, no matter how much I’ve convinced myself otherwise. That’s what I always will be to some extent, even when Little One is here. We might have each other, but I will be alone in caring for her. And for myself.
You don’t have to be, Abby. You have Ellie, and Griffin, and David. And Jack. Has he ever let you feel alone in this?
