Page 20 of Never Too Late

I lost count of how many times his mom came to my grandmother and cried, of how many times Mrs. McConnell talked to her, how both of them urged her to go to therapy. How his mom went all the way to Denver to get help. But the monster of depression was too strong, her grief too big. And in the end, all the help was useless, his mom just gave up. It was devastating, she was loved by many. But we all saw the depth of her pain, the struggle she had. It was hard to understand why she chose to do it, but not impossible.

How could he not know this?

“And how would you know?” he threw the question in my face.

“Because I felt exactly the same,” I screamed. “Every day after you threw me away was a struggle. Every day I prayed I would get better. Every day I hoped the pain would be less painful. And all through those days, I slapped a smile on my face and faked my way through. And every night I fell asleep in tears, wishing the next day wouldn’t come. Because even the thought of you not being a part of it ripped me in half.” The tears were now streaming down my face, my throat burned and spasmed. Still, I pushed through. “Suffering and depression doesn’t have a universal look, Dylan. With enough time, you become a master at hiding it.”

And with that, I shouldered my way past him.

Which in normal circumstances wouldn’t be possible, but he was much too shocked to notice.

He didn’t deserve more.

He didn’t deserve how in the end I had no choice but to lock everything down so I could try and live. How I had years of therapy which did absolutely nothing to help. How in the end my grandmother and Mrs. McConnell came to Boston, moved me to Seattle, and spent over two months with me making sure I was finding my way in the new city and trying to live.

It was only after I demanded to never talk about Dylan or come back to Hopeful that they sighed a sigh of relief.

And only after I got into the cardiac program that they were sure I snapped out of my grief.

They were wrong.

It took me three more years to be able to wake up and not dread the day before me.

And seventeen of them were not enough to get over him.

I still loved him.

I always would.

By the time he came to, I was already secure on my way.

And by the time he bellowed, “Sophie, wait!” I was in my car, ready to go.

As I passed him on the street going the opposite way of my house, I saw him running but he was too late.

The damage was done.

I didn’t go back home that night.

I hid in Mrs. McConnell’s house, making her swear to me she wouldn’t tell him I was there.

And for the next three days, I gave my all to avoid him.

7

Dylan

“Daddy, can I get this one?” Zara asked in her usual shriek, holding up a glowing glass ornament. It was a rare moment when I was grateful she was back at her normal ear piercing volume.

The last three days were brutal.

For my girl and for me.

Thankfully, the vomiting stopped completely the second day, just as Sophie said it would. The fever gave a good fight, but I managed to break it when I relented, threw my pride out of the window, and started doing as Sophie instructed.

Lots of fluids and light clothes.

None of that sweating it out nonsense.