Chapter 16 Cole
My six-year-old asked me if everyone she loves is going to leave her. I didn't have a good answer. Parent of the year, right here.
The first morning after Emma asked for space, I woke to silence. Not the peaceful quiet of the mountain, the heavy, wrong kind. The kind that meant Sarah wasn't chattering to her stuffed animals, wasn't asking what was for breakfast before I'd even opened my eyes.
I found her in her room, sitting on her bed, staring at the wall.
"Hey, kiddo. You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You hungry? I can make pancakes."
"I'm not hungry."
She'd never in her life turned down pancakes. I stood in her doorway, completely out of my depth.
"Sarah—"
"Can I just stay in my room today?"
"You have school."
"I don't wanna go."
I didn't push. I should have pushed. Instead, I called her in sick and spent the day watching her move through the cabin like a ghost, picking things up and putting them down, starting activities and abandoning them.
Great start, Brennan. Really nailing this single-parent thing.
By Wednesday, the ghost had turned angry.
I'd made grilled cheese for dinner, one of the three things I could reliably produce without setting off smoke alarms. Sarah poked at it with her finger, leaving dents in the bread. Then she shoved the plate away so hard it nearly went off the table.
"I'm not hungry!"
"Sarah, you need to eat something. You barely touched your lunch."
"No."
"Your body needs food to—"
"Why do you care?" The words exploded out of her, sharp and hot. Her small face twisted into a scowl I'd never seen before. "Nobody cares! Nobody!"
The anger hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't my Sarah. This was a hurt animal, lashing out at the nearest target.
I got up from my chair and knelt beside hers, putting myself at eye level. "I care very much. You know I do."
"Then why did Emma leave?"
"She didn't leave, sweetheart. She just—"
"She left! She does not want to talk to me!" Sarah's voice cracked, the anger dissolving into something worse. Tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks. "She left just like mummy. I messed it up."
My heart didn't break. It shattered. Completely. Into dust.
"No, baby." I reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek with my thumb. "No. You didn't mess anything up."
"Then why is she being so mean?"
"She's not being mean. She's being... scared."
Sarah's brow furrowed. "Scared of what?"
How do you translate years of grief and trauma and self-protection into words a child can understand?
"You know how sometimes when you get hurt, you don't want anyone to touch the owie? Even if they're trying to help?"
She nodded slowly.
"Emma has a really big owie inside. Not one you can see. And she's scared that if she lets people get close, she might get hurt again."
"But I don’t want to hurt her."
"I know, sweetheart. She knows that too. But sometimes when people are really scared, they push away the people they love the most. Because losing them would hurt the worst."
Sarah processed this, her nose scrunching up the way it did when she was thinking hard. "That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't, does it?"
"That's really dumb."
A sound escaped me, half laugh, half sob. "Yeah. It really is."
"Grown-ups are weird."
"We really are."
She was quiet for a moment, picking at the edge of her napkin. Then, in a smaller voice: "She still loves us, right? Even if she's hurting?"
"I think she loves us very much. That's why she's so scared."
"But..." Sarah's lip trembled. "But I miss her."
I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. "I know, baby. I miss her too."
Thursday morning was a battle.
"I don't wanna go to school," Sarah announced, arms crossed, still in her pajamas.
"You have to go to school."
"Why?"
"Because that's what kids do."
"But Emma's there." Her voice went small. "And I don’t like seeing her sad face."
The words were a knife. I knelt in front of her. "I know it's hard—"
"She used to smile at me especially." Sarah's eyes filled again. "Now she barely smiles at all."
I didn't have words. I just held her while she cried into my shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs.
I bribed her with hot chocolate from the diner. Not my proudest parenting moment, but desperate times. The drive to school was silent, none of her usual chatter about dreams or what she hoped they'd do in art class.
"Have a good day, kiddo," I said as she climbed out.
She didn't respond. Just trudged toward the building with her shoulders hunched, looking like she was walking to her own execution.
That afternoon, her teacher caught me in the hallway. Ms. Lewis was young, earnest, and clearly concerned.
"Mr. Brennan, do you have a moment?"
"Sure. Is everything okay?"
"I wanted to touch base about Sarah." She glanced around, lowering her voice. "She's just not herself lately. Today, during art, she refused to participate. Just sat there with her arms crossed."
"Art is her favorite."
"I know. And there was an incident at lunch." Ms. Lewis hesitated. "Another little girl asked if she wanted to play during recess. Sarah said, and I'm quoting here, 'Why? You're just gonna leave anyway. Everyone leaves.'"
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I actually swayed.
"Mr. Brennan? Are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm fine." I wasn't fine. Not even close. "Is there... anything else?"
"She's been staring out the window a lot. Not disruptive, just... absent. Like she's somewhere else." Ms. Lewis's expression softened with sympathy. "I know it's not my place, but is everything okay at home? Sometimes kids pick up on stress—"
"We're going through some changes," I said, the understatement of the century. "I'll talk to her."
"Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
In the truck, Sarah stared out the window without speaking.
"Ms. Lewis said you didn't want to do art today."
Silence.
"She also said you told a girl that everyone leaves."
More silence. Then, quietly: "It's true."
"Sarah—"
"Mommy left. Emma left. It's just true."
I pulled over to the side of the road. I couldn't have this conversation while driving. I turned to face her.
"Your mommy didn't leave," I said, my voice rough. "She didn't choose to go. She died. That's different."
"Dead is still gone."
I couldn't argue with that. She was right. Gone was gone, regardless of the reason.
"Emma's not gone," I tried. "She's just—"
"She's gone from us." Sarah's voice was flat, matter-of-fact in a way that broke me. "That's the same thing."
That night, I tried everything. Puzzles, games, and checking the hives. She rejected it all with the same hollow indifference.
"Want to finish our puzzle? We're so close to done."
"No, thank you."
"We could read an extra chapter tonight."
"I don't feel like it."
"What do you feel like doing?"
She looked at me with eyes that seemed decades older than six. "Nothing. Everything's dumb."
I sat on the couch, watching her listlessly flip through a picture book without actually looking at the pages. The cabin felt cavernous despite its small size. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with square footage.
After she finally fell asleep, I sat on the porch with my phone. The stars were out, the same stars Emma and I had kissed under, but they looked cold now. Distant.
I opened my messages. Emma's name stared up at me. I started typing.
Cole
Sarah asked why you don't like her anymore. She told a classmate that everyone leaves. She's hurting. We're both hurting. Please don't let fear win.
My thumb hovered over send.
She'd asked for space. Real space. I'd promised to respect that.
But Sarah was falling apart. Every day without Emma was teaching her that love was dangerous, that caring about people only led to pain. She was building the same walls Emma had, and she was only six years old.
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I deleted it, letter by letter, watching the words disappear.
She'd asked for space. I had to trust that she'd find her way back. Forcing my way in would only push her further away.
But God, it was hard. The hardest thing I'd ever done.
The weekend was brutal. Sarah barely spoke. She ate when I made her, slept when I put her to bed, and existed without really living. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror on Sunday morning and barely recognized myself; unshaved, hollow-eyed, looking like I'd aged ten years in two weeks.
Monday, I found Sarah in the kitchen before school, standing in front of the refrigerator.
"Whatcha doing, kiddo?"
"Looking at the pictures."
I walked over. The photos on the fridge door, Sarah's artwork, a snapshot of her with the bees, and one photo I'd forgotten was there. The three of us at Sarah's birthday party. Emma laughing, Sarah grinning, and me looking at them like they were the center of my universe.
Because they were.
"I miss when we were happy," Sarah said quietly.
"We can be happy again."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out."
She didn't look convinced. I didn't blame her. I wasn't convinced either.
Wednesday night, she found me on the porch after her bath.
"Uncle C?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
She climbed into my lap, still warm and damp from the water, smelling like her strawberry shampoo. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything."
A long pause. Then, in a voice so small I almost missed it: "Do you think Mommy would have left me too? If she didn't die?"
The question gutted me. Completely. I had to take a breath before I could answer.
"No," I said, the word fierce and absolute. "No, baby. Your mommy loved you so much. More than anything in the whole world."
"But how do you know?"
"Because she told me. Before you were born, she used to talk about you all the time. About how she couldn't wait to meet you. About all the things she wanted to show you."
"Really?"
"Really. She had this whole list. The ocean. Fireflies. How to make her special hot chocolate." I swallowed hard. "She wanted to be your mom more than anything. Leaving you was the last thing she would have ever wanted."
Sarah was quiet, processing. "But she left. And Emma left. And..."
"And?"
"What if you leave too?"
I turned her to face me, holding her by her small shoulders. "Look at me. I am never leaving you. Ever. Do you understand? You're stuck with me forever. That's the deal."
"But what if you die? Like Mommy?"
"I'm going to do everything I can to stay with you for a really, really long time. I'm careful. I eat my vegetables sometimes. I look both ways when crossing the street."
A ghost of a smile flickered across her face. "You don't eat vegetables."
"I eat potatoes. Those are vegetables."
"French fries aren't vegetables."
"They come from potatoes. Potatoes are vegetables. French fries are vegetables. That's just science."
She giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was so unexpected, so precious, that my eyes stung.
"Uncle Cole?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. Even if you're weird about vegetables."
"I love you too, kiddo. More than all the vegetables in the world."
She snuggled against my chest, and I held her there, watching the stars, feeling like maybe, just maybe, we might survive this after all.
Friday afternoon, I saw Emma through her classroom window as I waited for Sarah. She was standing there, watching us, and even from a distance I could see it—the pain carved into her face, the shadows under her eyes, the way she looked like she was barely holding herself together.
For a moment, our eyes met. The connection was a live wire.
Then Sarah tugged my hand, hard.
"Can we go?" Her voice was tight. "I don't wanna be here."
I let her pull me away. What else could I do?
We were at a breaking point. I could feel it. Every day without Emma was teaching Sarah that her worst fears were right, that loving people meant giving them the power to destroy you. Teaching it was safer to build walls.
She was six years old, and she was learning to be afraid of love.
I couldn't let that happen. Rebecca's daughter deserved better. She deserved to know that love was worth the risk, even when it hurt.
But I didn't know how to fix it. This wasn't a broken railing or a squeaky floorboard. I couldn't hammer my way through Emma's fear.
Just after tucking Sarah in for the night, I noticed my phone buzzing on the dining table.
I grabbed it without thinking, expecting a weather alert or spam.
Emma's name lit up the screen.
Incoming call.
My heart stopped. Then started again, hammering against my ribs.
I answered before I could second-guess myself.
"Emma?"
A shaky breath on the other end.
Then the beep signaled she had ended the call.
“Emma?”
“Emma?!!”
I tried calling her back repeatedly, but it was pointless; she had switched off her phone.
I wasn’t sure whether to consider this a good or bad sign.