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The minor trembles that have remained somewhat of a companion the past few years become an earthquake of shaking limbs. Fearing I’m going to drop my daughter, I set her on her feet in order to grip the doorway with my now-free hand. The other clutches at my chest as a painful squeeze rockets through me.
I can’t breathe.
The tightness in my chest grows into a fist around my throat. My breaths become sharper and shallow until I feel like I’m gasping for precious air. A buzzing hums in my ears, drowning out the sounds of my daughter. I notice the tears on her cheeks but can’t make out her fearful cries. It’s as if a veil has separated us. I’m forced to watch her from the outside as I lose control.
What feels like an eternity later, the door finally swings open. Shirtless, in a pair of gray sweats, the only man I’ve been with since losing my husband answers with a puzzled expression. Dane’s face morphs from confused to angry to concerned in half a second.
“Are you hurt?” He leans halfway out of the door and tensely scans the street.
“I think I’m having a heart attack!” I gasp, convinced my broken heart has finally given out.
I’m in the best place if I suddenly die. To stop fighting and let go.
Our daughter won’t be alone.
