“That sounds great.”
I’ve been planning this for months—I know exactly where we’re going.
Noah will have more family than he realises.
Three
Emma
“Do you think Mum’s getting out of bed today?”
My youngest son, Jason, whisper-yells right outside the door of the spare room where I’ve been camped out for weeks.
“Just leave her. She needs to rest,” Noah replies.
“But, Dad?—”
“That’s not a problem today. Let’s go back to the living room. We can find a movie to watch.”
What’s going on?
I open my eyes to a dark bedroom. The blackout curtains always made it impossible to tell what time of day it is. Rolling over, I reach for my phone beside the bed.
11:06 a.m.
Shit.
The kids have school. Noah has work. Why did I sleep so late? Malcolm.
Malcom’s dead.
Yesterday’s memories come flooding back, and I place my palm on my chest in a vain attempt to slow my racing heart.
“Noah?” I croak.
He pushes the door open and steps in.
“What are you still doing here? The kids …”
“I called their schools and told them what happened. And I took bereavement leave.” He holds up his palms. “I haven’t told them, and you know they won’t go into his room. They’re all in the living room now. Jase was hovering because he’s worried about you.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’m sure they suspect, but I knew you’d want to tell them together.”
“Thank you.”
“Take your time, Mum.” He smiles before he closes the door.
I blow out some long breaths before I sit up. It’s time to get out there and tell my children their father is dead.
I’m not sure how they’ll feel.
There was never a time when we were a happy family. Malcolm’s dark shadow was long and none of us have ever been free to be ourselves.
And with him sick, it’s only been worse these past few months.
Today, it’s like a cloud has lifted.
