Page 140 of Anything But Lonely

“Are you ready?” he asks, and I hear Crew shift in his seat, feel his little blue eyes on me.

I shake my head, the tears threatening to fall… Again.

It’s like a dam broke, and I’m making up for years and years of holding them back—crying at the smallest thing.

But it feels good.

Which sounds silly. Stupid even.

But crying for me has been cathartic, a physical release. Allowing me to feel the feelings I’ve been burying for weeks, months, years.

“It’s okay, Ems,” Crew says, and I turn around when I hear a small sniffle. His eyes are glassy as he looks at me, and old habits die hard.

Instinct immediately takes over for a moment, and I go to wipe my eyes with my fingers, trying to let go of Mateo’s hand, but he holds tight.

I pull a little harder, but he doesn’t even budge.

Making people cry is like my own personal hell. Watching someone else's tears, knowing I'm the reason they're hurting, feels like a punishment specifically designed for me. Every instinct I have screams at me to fix it. Smooth it over. Make a joke. Change the subject. Do anything to stop looking at the evidence of what I've done.

And now I've somehow managed to make both of them cry.

Crew's eyes are glassy, his little face pinched with concern, and Mateo looks like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.

The guilt lands hard in my chest.

They're hurting because of me.

I walked into their lives carrying enough grief and denial and pain to almost kill me, and now it's spilling over onto the people I love most.

Part of me wants to run.

The other part—the exhausted, fragile part that's finally too tired to keep pretending—just sits there and lets them see me anyway.

“Don’t hold it in,” Mateo says, grabbing my other hand in his. He looks at Crew. “Tell Ems what we always say, buddy.”

Turning to Crew, I see the grin spread on his face, despite the tears in his eyes. He’s the kindest, most empathetic little boy I’ve ever known, and sometimes just looking at him makes my chest ache. Like my heart was never built to hold this much love without splitting at the seams. “You can always cry if you need to,” Crew tells me, “crying just means your feelings need someplace to go.”

I squeeze Mateo’s hand before I let go, reaching for Crew. I hold my palm up to him, and he puts his hand in mine. “Thanks, champ. I really needed to hear that.”

Both boys reach for my hands again the second we step out of the car, their fingers slipping into mine like they’re afraid to let go. They release me only long enough to close the doors before finding my hands again.

The three of us walk through the grass together, hand in hand, and I don’t know if they realize that their presence alone—their hands in mine—is giving me the strength I need to stand. The strength to walk towards the place I’ve been avoiding for months.

I haven’t been back to this cemetery since my mom’s funeral, but it’s like my feet know exactly where to take me.

I still haven’t seen her headstone, having refused to even look at it for the entire burial.

But today, my eyes scan the field of so many loved ones and the place we go to feel close to them, looking for hers.

The trees rustle in the distance as we walk, and it feels like the ground is shifting beneath me, my balance suddenly unsteady the closer we get.

And then I see it, in the distance, a little too far to make out what’s engraved on the stone, or maybe it’s because of the blur in my vision.

When we reach the headstone, I instantly fall to my knees, all of the air rushing out of my lungs, the entire world around me completely disappearing.

Angela Hastings

Mother and Grandmother