Page 148 of I’m Already Gone

I open my arms wide, and they run into them.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, kissing the tops of their heads, one after another. The kids cry in my arms, and I hold them tighter than I ever have before, trying to absorb their pain.

“We’re going to be okay. We will get through this,” I promise.

We pull apart, and I look down at them, offering a shaky, watery smile. “It’s okay to feel sad, angry, and confused. All of that is okay, and I’m going to feel those things too. But I want you to know that we’re still a family, and we’re going to get through this together. I am going to take care of all of you.”

Maddy hiccups, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Jake puts his arm around her trembling shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay, sis,” he reassures her. “Dad’s right. We’re going to be okay. Dad will take care of us. It’s what Mom would’ve wanted.”

A fresh wave of tears wells in his eyes, but he holds his façade in place for his sister.

“Was Mama in pain?” Ollie asks.

I shake my head, my throat tight. “No, buddy. Your mom was asleep.”

“That’s good,” he replies, nodding. “I don’t want Mama to be in pain.”

“Me neither, buddy.”

“At least she wasn’t alone,” Maddy says, her voice cracking.

My chin quivers, and I suck in a sharp breath.

No. She wasn’t. I held her, I tell myself, for one last time.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jake says.

“I’m sorry too, son.”

The sudden chime of the doorbell rips through the heavy atmosphere. I wipe the tears from my face with my hand. “That’s the hospice nurse and the funeral home. To take care of your mom.”

More tears spill from their already swollen eyes.

I look up to see movement. Sam stands in the doorway, pale and a wreck, her eyes red-rimmed.

“I’ll get it,” she says numbly as she walks toward the front door.

“When Auntie Sam returns, I want you to go with her while I help the nurse with your mom, okay?” I instruct the kids.

“Can we say goodbye?” Maddy asks.

“It’s up to you,” I tell them. “But keep in mind that your mother will look different. She will be very still, quiet, and cold, and she won’t be able to hear or see you.”

“I don’t want to see Mama cold,” Ollie says, his lower lip trembling.

“That’s okay, buddy,” I reassure him, pulling him close for a quick squeeze.

Sam walks back in, then a nurse with a kind, somber face behind her, followed by two solemn gentlemen holding a gurney.

“Sam, can you take Ollie to the kitchen, please?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says, her eyes showing she understands. Ollie goes to her arms without question, resting his head on her shoulder. “Do you want some warm milk, buddy? To help you sleep?” she asks, rubbing his back.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and they disappear into the kitchen.

The nurse looks to me, her expression kind. “Hello, Ethan. I am so sorry for your loss.”