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ADDISON
TWELVE WEEKS LATER…
After Emily had been gone for a week, Chase returned to work a few hours a day. Rudy insisted he stay out longer, but Chase needed to transition back into a routine to keep himself going. Willow returned to school a week after that.
Some days are harder than others, when the heavy burden of grief and loss still hovers over us. But for the most part, we’re doing okay. Chase and Willow have both been utilizing coping mechanisms taught to them in therapy, and they visit Emily’s grave every Sunday, which seems to be a comfort for them both.
It’s been an adjustment spending so much time on my own, but I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed it. It’s allowed me to get to know who I really am—my wants and needs and dreams. While Willow, Chase, and the baby are always on my mind and in every decision I make, their presence in my life never makes me feel trapped. I’ve finally found my peace.
Indira and I were eventually able to purchase the studio at a sixty-forty split. Overseeing renovations has given me something to focus on, but now we’re at a standstill until after the baby is born—the baby that still has no name and no nursery set up.
At thirty-six weeks, exhaustion has been hitting me hard. I’m finding it more and more difficult to drag myself out of bed in the mornings—and this morning is no different. Eventually, I go downstairs to grab a cup of coffee from the pot Chase made before work, and then I head back upstairs to get dressed and check in on Willow.
Her door is slightly ajar, so I peek my head in rather than knock and spy her on the bed. The comforter is still made up from when we made her bed together yesterday. She’s lying on top of her covers, wrapped up in her mother’s afghan.
Her face is neutral, but I proceed like I’m walking barefoot along a hallway of Legos. I know how quickly her mask can drop and the sadness can take over.
“Morning,” I say quietly, making my way into the room. I kneel—quite awkwardly—at the side of her bed, leaning my arms onto the covers and my chin on my arm. “How do we feel today?” It’s a question I’ve asked her often in the three months since her mother passed away.
“We feel okay today,” she replies.
I reach out my hand and place it on the one gripping her blanket. Her knuckles are white from strain. I tap them lightly and she loosens her hold on the cover, her armor, letting it fall to the side so she can take my hand.
She doesn’t smile, but I can see the gratitude that shines in her eyes.
Some days, it feels like we’re one person walking around in two bodies, feeling the same hurt. Her sadness is my sadness. Her happiness is my happiness. I can’t separate my emotions from hers because everything she feels, she projects so strongly. But every single day, I’m so grateful she was brought into my life.
“I’m craving banana bread,” I say. “Should we make some?”
She nods and takes one last deep breath before starting to rise from the bed. On shaky legs, I rise with her. As Willow heads into the bathroom, I walk over to her closet to pull out some clothes.
She’s probably too old for me to choose her clothes, but I keep finding myself doing it, and she hasn’t complained. I lay them down on her bed, catching my reflection in the mirror in the corner.
There isn’t a full-length mirror in my bedroom, so other than the one hanging over the sink in the bathroom, I don’t usually pay much attention to what I look like. I can obviously see—and feel—the enhancements of my body, but seeing it all in one glimpse is slightly overwhelming.
My hair is messy—secured in a hair tie but still all over the place. I’m not wearing any makeup, mostly because my hormones have been so out of whack that any time it adorns my face, I break out.
My hips are wider than usual. I feel the pain of their growth nearly every second of the day. My stomach has gotten so large that I’ve already gone up a size in maternity pants. I raise my shirt and lower the elastic around my middle, turning in the mirror. Along my hips and lower abdomen, stretch marks riddle my skin.
I look beautiful.
I’ve come so far from the sophisticated lawyer in LA. The college-aged socialite party girl. The athlete who lived and breathed dance. Out of all the versions of myself, this one has to be my favorite. A soon-to-be mother, already madly in love with the child I’ve yet to meet.
Willow opens her bathroom door, stopping short as she sees me.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her smirk is small, but it’s there.
I laugh and start to pull up the band of my pants, covering my stomach. Once my shirt is back in place, I notice that Willow’s eyes haven’t left my stomach.
“I’m sorry I was so mean to you about the baby,” she says quietly. She walks over and plops onto the bed, scooting back until her legs dangle from the side. “I’m excited to have a brother, but I’m sad too.”
“I know you are, honey. You don’t have to apologize,” I reply, sitting beside her.
“I miss her. She hasn’t been gone long, and I already miss her so much.” Tears roll down her cheeks, and neither of us move to stop them
“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘time heals all wounds’?” I ask her. She shakes her head, turning her eyes downward. “Well, it’s something people say to those of us who’ve lost someone. It means that over time, our pain will get easier. But I don’t really think that’s true. I think we just get used to our pain, so it feels like less of a shock to our system every day. You’ll never stop missing her, unfortunately. But you’ll learn how to live your life around the hurt.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes before she sniffs loudly and wipes her face with the sleeve of her pajama top.
