Chapter 18 The Art of Putting People in Their Place Emmett
I’VE SPENT WHAT FEELS LIKE a lifetime watching my wife. Since the moment I first saw her, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her. She walked in that room, our gazes collided, and my life began.
I’ve learned more than I ever could in school by watching her.
Learned what quiet confidence looks like, and when it’s okay to let that confidence roar.
Learned how to be comfortable in my skin.
How to love myself. How to turn every weakness into something that makes me special.
I’ve learned how to be a friend, how to love my people without condition, how to stand quietly at their side or give them the shove they need, the reminder that they can conquer anything.
I’ve learned what bravery looks like—real, honest-to-goodness strength, the kind you keep finding when you think you can’t dig any deeper but are forced to anyway.
I’ve learned that grief is everywhere, hiding in places you didn’t expect it.
It’s the quiet hope you cling to month after month, a wish that never comes true.
A future that doesn’t exist, proven time after time by a single pink line.
An empty space that seems to grow bigger each month, stealing pieces of you right from your hands.
Sometimes, grief is mourning what never was, wiping away the tears, taking a deep breath, gluing a broken smile on your face, and convincing yourself that there’s always next month, next cycle.
And sometimes, grief is defeat. Giving up the fight, the effort. Empty smiles. Empty eyes. Empty words, whispered without meaning.
A broken soul, a shell of the woman she was before.
I’ve learned a lot from watching my wife. This past week, I’ve learned what surviving when you have no other choice looks like.
I don’t want her to survive; I want her to live.
But I don’t know how to bring her back from this.
And that? That makes me a failure.
Sliding the patio door open, I shiver against the cold as I step outside.
Snowflakes fall slowly, decorating the backyard and the towering pines behind us like a winter wonderland.
The pink mug warms my hands as I carry it across the covered patio to where Cara is curled up on the oversized porch swing next to the fireplace, staring out at the snow.
“Hey, firefly,” I murmur, bending to press my lips to the crown of her head. I press the mug into her hands. “Made you a latte.”
Empty blue eyes drift to mine, and she gives me a smile just as empty. “Thank you.”
I watch her for a moment, the way she grips the mug, the way her eyes move back to the trees, staring so blankly at them I’m not sure she even realizes they’re slowly being covered in snow.
My hand goes to the nape of my neck as I look for something to say.
I tip my head at the bare Christmas tree in our living room window.
“Wanna decorate the tree tonight? Pizza, wine, snacks, and It’s a Wonderful Life? ”
“Sure.”
“Great.” I clap my hands together. “I’ll pick up snacks on my way home. Skittles and M I want it. I want whatever emotion she’ll give me. I just want her to feel something, anything.
But then she leans forward, sweeps the ghost of a kiss over my forehead, and stands. “I have to meet a client. I’ll see you when I get home.”
I stand there in the falling snow, watching as she disappears into the house, listening as her car pulls down the driveway and speeds away, and I wonder if she’ll ever really come home again.
ISPEND THE NEXT TWO HOURS stringing the same twenty beads on the same stretchy thread. Over and over again, black, navy, and purple, sparkly hearts too small for my fingers.
My hand shakes, the way it’s been doing for too long now, and I lose my hold on the bracelet. The beads spill, scattering over the tabletop for what must be the fifteenth time, and this time, I’m done. I push the tray of beads away and groan, scrubbing my hands over my face.
“I’m fucking useless,” I mutter.
“Seems a bit harsh.” A hand reaches over from my left, sweeping my beads away.
I look up, watching as Jaxon starts lining them up on a board.
Brows raised, he points to the letters I collected earlier.
When I nod, he lines them up next to the hearts.
“Sarah taught me this,” he murmurs about a girl who used to live here at the children’s home before she was adopted earlier this year.
They’re still really close, almost like brother and sister.
“It’s a bit finicky sometimes…” He pokes the hole through one end of the bead lineup, pushes it through, and ahas when he lifts both ends of the beaded thread up.
I want to thank him, because I know I should.
But I’m angry. Defeated. I’m trying so damn hard to be everything Cara needs right now, and I’m failing.
Over and over again, I fail. And this bracelet—this meaningless fucking bracelet—is just another example of that.
Something I can’t do right. Something somebody else can do with ease.
It’s like Jaxon can sense it, because he stares at me for quiet moment before spilling the beads back on the tray, lining them up all over again. “Now you try it.”
It takes me a few minutes, way longer than Jaxon. But finally, with trembling hands and brows so furrowed my forehead hurts, I lift the beaded thread up.
Jaxon clasps my shoulder. “You did it, bud. Now tie it off before you drop it.”
I shake my head, too nervous to try.
“Give it here.” Carter reaches across the table, curling his fingers into his palm. “I’ve got nimble fingers.”
Garrett snorts, knocking his hand away. “Give it. I tie knots all the time.”
Carter glares at him. “When?”
Garrett pumps his brows. “When I pull the ribbon out of your sister’s hair and use it to tie her wrists to the—”
Carter claps his hands over his ears. “La-la-la-la-la, I’m not listening, I’m not listening!”
I hand over the bracelet, watching as Garrett focuses on tying the ends together. When Carter cautiously drops his hands from his ears, Garrett murmurs, “Bedposts.”
He tosses the finished bracelet at me, shrieking as Carter tells all the kids at our table to “Get him!” The poor guy gets tackled to the ground, smothered with pillows and stuffed animals, shrieking for Adam to help.
Adam doesn’t look up from the bracelet he’s working on. “You’re doing great, buddy.”
A door shuts, and I look over my shoulder as Emily, a therapist who works here with some of the kids, and one of Garrett and Jennie’s good friends, steps out of her office. She joins us at our table, looking down at the beads scattered over it. “Enjoying your arts and crafts time?”
Adam holds up a pile of bracelets. “We’re making bracelets to give to someone we care about for Christmas.”
Emily picks up a bracelet, reading the word on it. “Lioness?”
“One of the kids suggested we pick something that reminds us of the person we’re giving it to. Lioness is for Rosie, because she’s strong and courageous.”
“I made thirteen,” Carter says, breathless, like waiting his turn to speak was unbearable. “Wanna hear ’em all?”
“I couldn’t think of a worse idea,” Emily murmurs, but Carter starts listing them off anyway.
“Onion for Jaxon, ’cause he’s so wrapped up in layers. Kitten for Ollie, ’cause she’s tiny and soft and adorable, but also, kitty is another word for pus—”
“Shut up. Now.” Emily picks one up, brow arching. “This one just says DILF.”
Carter’s cheeks flush as he swipes it from her, slipping it on his wrist. He strokes the beads reverently. “That one’s for me.”
Emily rolls her eyes, then examines the rest of the bracelets, pausing to connect with every kid at the table, asking them about why they chose their word. She stops at me, eyes moving across Cara’s bracelet.
Thunderstorm.
I look away, balling the bracelet in my fist. I don’t want to talk about it, not right now, not in front of everyone. Not when my heart hasn’t stopped hammering in my ears all day.
And instead of asking, Emily lays her hand on my shoulder. A gentle touch, only for a moment, and then it’s gone. “That’s a perfect word for Cara.”
Some of that tension in my shoulders eases, just enough to let me breathe.