Hugh felt tears pricking his eyes as he tried to steady his hands enough to type.
Hugh: Forgive me. I love you. Tell my chil
A fireball seemed to hold his body in stasis…and then nothing.
Rowan. Rowan. Rowan.
one
SIX MONTHS AFTER—THE FUNERAL
BÉBHINN
Death happens every day,every hour, every minute, every second. Death affects mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, and children…everyone. It certainly affected me.
Is it harder for the loved ones left behind to lose someone unexpectedly or to know their expiration date?
It doesn’t matter, really. When they’re gone, they’re gone.
No more hugs.
No more smiles.
No more texts or calls when something amazing happens and the first person you want to tell isn’t there anymore.
They aren’t just gone, like on vacation, but gone forever. It hardly seems fair.
I don’t speak much anymore. I do cry when I’m alone. A lot. My family is worried about me. I suppose I would be worried too. I’m being selfish in my grief. The whole family is wrecked. I don’t own the majority of stock in our heartache.
My mother… Well, what can I say? I’m worried I’m going to lose both of my parents.
I ache with grief. God, how I ache. Every day, I wait for purple and black bruises to appear on my arms and legs…over my heart. Alas, they don’t show. They’re phantoms, like so many other things in my life now.
His voice. His hugs. His smiles, when he rarely smiled at anyone. My father had been my truest safe place. A mighty oak in a storm. When rain pelted me, or thunder and lightning tore up the sky, Dad’s arms were my hedge of protection.
Oh Christ, how I miss him.
The loneliness has become white noise. It dulls my senses and allows me to sit for hours scrolling through memories. Contemplating shadow designs that the sun makes through the living room shades. Considering how many years stretch before me without him there.
He will never see me graduate. He will never chase off a boyfriend, walk me down the aisle, or hold my child in his arms.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
I have begun to manage a parody of normalcy, but only because Mom needs me. I get dressed in the mornings. I go to my classes. I eat dinner with my friends. I even tried laughing at one of Mags’ jokes. Once. Once, I tried, and it felt terrible. My heart squeezed so painfully, I thought it would explode. I haven’t tried again.
I rarely eat, and sleep still eludes me. I’ve only been to Mom and Dad’s top floor apartment once since the funeral. Too many memories. Mom shouldn’t live there, but she cried for hours when I suggested she move, even temporarily. I haven’t brought it up since. I won’t, but I can’t go in there. Not yet.
My Aunt River always told me to practice the old adage, “Fake it till you make it,” if I found myself in a shitty place.
I’m faking it, but far from making it. I will, though. Eventually, I will think of Dad without crying. Eventually, the family will speak of Hugh Darcy O’Faolain instead of remembering silently.
I look at the crisp, white, unopened envelope lying next to my phone charger on the whiskey barrel nightstand that Dad had made for me last year for my birthday. It featured the Three Wolves label burned into the wood. I loved it.
The envelope staring back at me—not so much.
The planner that he’d been, Dad had written letters to his three children and wife to be delivered after his death.
Mom refused the letter. She backed away from her white envelope, shaking her head in denial. Bran said he would keep it in case she changed her mind. To my knowledge, Mom hasn’t asked for it.
