Chapter 33
Mark
Mark stood in the hallway, the house hushed after dinner, exhaustion pulling at his bones though sleep eluded him. The faint scent of dinner lingered in the air, the stillness broken only by Ethan’s soft snores from the couch and the distant creak of his parents’ bedroom door settling. Diana had left an hour ago, her red planner tucked under her arm, but Linda remained, a quiet presence he sensed nearby. He shuffled into the dining room, the table’s wood gleaming faintly under the moonlight spilling through the window, and found her standing against the wall, staring out into the night.
“It’s been years since I’ve stood in this room. I miss her so damn much.” she said, her voice soft and reflective, turning slightly to him. “The house is turnout out so beautiful, Mark.”
He nodded, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the floor. “Ethan has been amazing and understanding her notes and making it a reality,” he said, his tone warm but tired. “Jessica would’ve loved to see it all done, you know. She had such a vision for our home.”
Linda’s gaze shifted, sharp yet kind, pinning him where he stood. “Speaking of Ethan,” she said, her voice steady now, “I need to ask you something point-blank. You’ve started this relationship with him—what are your intentions?”
He froze, caught off guard, his chest tightening defensively. “What do you mean, my intentions?” he said, his voice rising a notch. “I care about him, Linda. What’s there to question?”
She held his gaze, unflinching, and he faltered, his heart filled with regret as the words sank in. He sighed, rubbing his neck, his tone softening. “I’m happy with him, Linda, happier than I’ve been in years. But there’s this part of me that feels like I’m betraying Jessica, betraying her memory by letting myself feel this way.”
Linda stepped closer, her expression gentle but firm. “Ethan’s a good man, Mark, a strong man,” she said, her voice carrying weight. “He’s got an open heart—it’s what makes him such a good son, a great police officer, a wonderful person. If there’s even a chance this is just an experiment or a fling for you, I’m asking you to stop it now. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
He swallowed, her words cutting deep, and nodded slowly. “I know all that,” he said, his voice low and raw. “I’ve fallen in love with him, Linda. Completely. But I haven’t told him yet—I’m holding back, and I don’t know why.”
She tilted her head, “Is it guilt over Jessica keeping you from saying it?”
He hesitated, staring at the floor, his throat tight. “I don’t know what she’d say about this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if she’d want me to move on like this.”
Linda’s eyes softened, and she gestured toward the framed poem on the wall, Jessica’s handwriting curling across it in faded ink. “You already know what she’d say, Mark,” she said, stepping over to it. “Listen to this—she wrote it for you.”
She read aloud, her voice steady and clear: