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He made his way down the narrow aisle of pews, his thick, familiar cologne lingering in the air around me. I scanned the little church, grateful there weren’t many people left. My gaze caught with Reagan’s, and she gave me the smallest smile before whispering something in Emma’s ear. She set her down, and my daughter barreled toward me, her arms outstretched.
I scooped her up and set her on my lap, my arm wrapped around her, but my eyes were still on Rae’s. She glanced at Cora, then around the room, and rose from her spot to make her way to me.
She was so different from Meredith. Sometimes I forgot they were even sisters.
“How you holding up?” she murmured, brushing Emma’s soft, dark hair behind her ear.
“I’m okay,” I said, and she gave me a look like she didn’t believe me. “I’ll be okay.”
“I just can’t believe it, you know?” Her eyes turned watery as she looked toward the casket. “I keep thinking she’s going to walk through those doors and say this was all some stupid joke.”
“I feel the same way,” I muttered. I grabbed her hand, lacing our fingers together, and squeezed. “But she’s not coming back, and we have to figure out how to keep going without her.”
“I don’t know how,” she admitted.
“I don’t either.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to Emma talk to herself and the sniffles of the few remaining people in the room, our hands still locked together.
The casket felt like it was mocking me, like Meredith was mocking me. Every nasty word we’d said to each other that night came crashing down around me.
I should’ve told her I loved her one last time, even if it would’ve felt like a lie. I should’ve told her I didn’t really want a divorce. I should’ve been a better husband to her.
But she should’ve been a better wife to me. She should’ve told me she loved me one last time, even if it was a lie. And she should’ve stayed home that night, not because I’d begged her to stay, but because she’d known she was too drunk to drive and she had a fucking daughter to raise.
She shouldn’t have been so reckless. She shouldn’t have said all the things she did—
I stopped myself from going down that road. It didn’t do me any good to hate my dead wife. I couldn’t soil Emma’s few memories of her mother.
Maybe one day, when the wounds weren’t so fresh and the grief wasn’t so intense, I could remember the good times. Maybe I could forget that night had ever happened and move on with my life. I could pretend like the words we’d spat at each other were just a part of some nightmare, and we hadn’t actually meant them.
Deep down, I knew I could never forget them. Deep down, I knew I meant those words, and I’d never take them back. Deep down, I knew she meant them, too.
And deep down, I didn’t care.
2
elliot
Present
“Emma, come on,”I sighed. “We’re going to be late.”
“Don’t wanna go!” She stomped her foot down, her little hands in tight fists at her sides. “Don’t wanna. Don’t wanna. Don’t wanna!” She threw herself to the floor, landing on her bottom, and banged her fists on the rug.
If I was a better father, I’d reprimand her and fix the behavior.
But I’m a terrible fucking father and in way over my head and so exhausted I could fall asleep with my eyes open. So, I didn’t even attempt to fix anything.
“Emma.” I crouched beside her, balancing on the balls of my feet. I tried to breathe through my growing anger and frustration, but fuck, it was hard. “Come on.”
“No!”
She let out a screech that made me wince. Tears streamed from her eyes, down her red and sweaty face. Her dark hair was a wild mess around her, her updo I’d worked so hard on now ruined from her tantrum.
I stared down at her, contemplating just leaving her on the floor. I’d long since learned to never pick up a screaming, crying, kicking toddler. I’d gotten kicked in the balls one too many times when I tried in the past. Now I didn’t even think about trying it.
“You have to go,” I said.
