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“How’s he doing?” she asks in a hushed voice.
While the news of Anderson’s diagnosis hasn’t been made public yet, Rory works for the king’s private secretary. She has access to more information than I probably do.
“Taking it one day at a time.”
She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “That’s all any of us can do.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, then step back, pushing down the emotions over the reminder of the uphill battle Anderson faces in the coming weeks. I may be his chief protection officer, but I’m also his friend. When Anderson told me he’d been diagnosed with MS, it was like a punch to the gut, especially since he’s the same age his mother was when she died as a result of complications from the same disease.
“And why would your mum imply you may not have been all that good?” I cross my arms in front of my chest, arching a brow in AJ’s direction.
“I have been,” he protests but averts his gaze, a telltale sign he's not being completely honest.
“He got into a little…altercation at school.”
“Because that tosser was making fun of me for not having a dad.”
“Language, AJ,” I reprimand.
“Last week was the Breakfast with Dad at his school,” Rory explains.
My posture slumping, I squeeze my eyes shut as regret weighs down my stomach. I remember how it felt when my dad didn’t show up for those types of things because he was working. I swore I’d never put my kids through that. Granted, AJ isn’t technically my child, but I’ve always acted as if he is.
“I’m sorry, buddy. I completely forgot.”
AJ shrugs, but I can tell it still bothers him. “It’s okay.” Then a slow smile crawls on his lips. “Pretty sure he regretted it after I was finished with him.”
“Is that right?”
“I did some of the moves you taught me. Took out his pressure points first, then disabled him with a kick in the groin.”
I throw my head back and laugh as I pull him against me. “That’s my boy.”
“Well, yourboyearned himself a week of detention,” Rory interjects. “Not to mention has made my life more difficult, since this kid’s mother is the PTA president and has started a campaign to remove me from the Holiday Fair Planning Committee.”
“So? I thought you hated doing that.”
“I do, but I’m trying to help at AJ’s school as much as I can. It’s not as easy for me. Not when all the other mothers have husbands at home to help.”
“I’m here,” I offer, although it’s not the same. We may share parenting responsibilities. May share a house. May even share a bed on occasion when the grief hits her particularly hard.
But we don’t share a life.
Part of me wonders if I’m keeping her locked in the past by staying here.
If I’m keeping myself locked in the past, too.
“I know you are.” She offers me a grateful smile. “Sometimes I just wish…” She looks to the ceiling, blinking back the tears welling in her blue eyes.
She hates crying in front of AJ. He may be a tough kid, but he’s also sensitive, as evidenced by the fact he kneed a kid in the junk when he poked fun at him for not having a dad. He picks up on his mum’s emotions easily. Hates to see her upset.
I do, too.
Especially when she’s upset over something that’s out of our control.
And this past decade I’ve learned that grief isn’t something anyone can control.
In the beginning, I thought I’d wake up one day and be over the loss. I soon had to face the hard truth that it doesn’t work that way. Some days, even years later, the grief is so profound I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight. Other times, it’s barely noticeable.
