Chapter 31
Abby
Thirty Eight Weeks
“There we go,” I mutter to myself, tying a bow around the final curtain panel. Stepping back, I do a slow spin, admiring the finally finished nursery.
It’s exactly how I pictured it–pale greens and yellows combined with warm wood finishes that give the room a soft glow.
The green velvet couch that was replaced by the couch bed is against the wall opposite of the crib Jack built, with a bookshelf (also built by Jack) tucked between the arm of the sofa and the corner of the wall.
The nursery glider sits close to the crib, bathed in the warm light of the sunset.
The quilt Granny made is folded neatly on the crib mattress, directly below the hanging mobile of delicate fabric butterflies.
My hands rest folded on top of my bump in a brief moment of serenity when it happens–a rush of grief so strong it nearly brings me to my knees.
In the blink of an eye, everything suddenly looks wrong. Not because it isn’t beautiful, or carefully curated, but because Aaron had nothing to do with it. Would he hate this color? Would he have picked a different mobile? Why didn’t I think about the little touches he would have added?
My stomach rolls and bile threatens to rise in my throat.
Old feelings resurface against my will, and it’s all I can do not to scream.
I look at the handmade quilt, but instead of warmth and gratitude, all I can feel is bitterness.
For the first time in years, I think about my mother and hate her for not being here.
That quilt should have been made by her.
I look at the crib and cringe with guilt. I think back to just a few weeks ago, watching Jack build the beautiful piece of furniture.
And thinking about how beautiful he is.
How did I possibly think I could lay my daughter down to sleep in a bed built by any man other than Aaron? And how could I possibly look at anyone else the way I looked at him?
My gaze flickers to the couch—my beloved velvet couch, the singular demand I made of Aaron when we began looking at furniture for the house–and my face heats with fury.
It shouldn’t be in here. I never should have moved it out of the living room.
Especially because I moved it to make room for a more comfortable place for Jack to sleep.
Jack, who was Aaron’s best friend. Jack, who is not my husband, not the father of my baby, not my partner.
I never should have involved him in any of this.
I stumble backwards, desperate to get out of this room as quickly as possible.
It's finally here—the feelings I've been desperate to avoid, the truth I haven't wanted to admit. I tried to ignore it, secretly hoping it wouldn't happen. But reality has caught up with me.
This isn’t some cute or exciting or wholesome adventure with my patchwork friend-family. I’ve let myself live in complete delusion, because the reality is cold and harsh and lonely. I haven’t wanted to face it, and I let everyone enable my avoidance.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—the same mirror I stared into when I had to accept the truth about Little One—and force myself to accept another truth.
“You are doing this on your own,” I whisper harshly. “You are a widow. A single mom. And no amount of pretending is going to change that.”
Tears of anger streak down my cheeks, still flushed with anger.
“As much as you love them, your friends are not your family. Your family broke the day Aaron died. And you can’t fix that. Get that through your head. And let him go.”
It's a mark of how fucked up things have gotten that I don't even know which 'him' I'm talking about.
I gag violently, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach empties itself of its contents. When I finish vomiting, I sit on the cold floor, wiping cold, clammy sweat from my brow before resting my forehead on my knees.
Alone. That’s what I’ve been for nine months, no matter how much I’ve convinced myself otherwise. That’s what I always will be to some extent, even when Little One is here. We might have each other, but I will be alone in caring for her. And for myself.
You don’t have to be, Abby. You have Ellie, and Griffin, and David. And Jack. Has he ever let you feel alone in this?
Jack. The thoughts of him sting the most. Because if I’m honest with myself, I’ve let myself pretend that he’s filled the hole Aaron left. That I have a partner in this. That I’m not alone as long as he’s around.
But he’s going to have his own wife and kid someday. He won’t be here forever. The thoughts that started a few weeks ago play on a loop in my mind—there's only so much a person can give. He'll hit a breaking point, and then he'll be gone too.
I slink miserably into bed, feeling lower than I have since those first few weeks after the funeral. I wish so desperately that my rose colored glasses weren’t shattered, but there’s no un-seeing the truth for what it is.
Maybe it won’t feel so big and bad tomorrow. Maybe you won’t be alone after all. Maybe this will feel like a silly nightmare you can brush off.
But as I drift off to sleep, I know deep down that it won’t. And I know what I have to do to protect Little One from being hurt–and to protect myself. I can’t risk that kind of loss again. Because I have to survive. For her. It’s not about me anymore. I need to make the right choice for us both.
Even if it tears me apart.
***
I was right to doubt that I’d feel better when I woke up this morning. If anything, I feel worse. I’m exhausted, and guilt-ridden, and angry. So unbelievably angry that I might burst into flames from the rage.
I’ve been so happy, so comfortable in my little bubble. And I’m furious with myself for giving in to it. It’s been so much easier to pretend that I’m not alone in this, that I’m not alone in this house, that everything is what it should be. But it’s not.
“Good morning, pretty girl,” Jack yawns, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “You sleep okay?”
“No,” I say in a flat tone. When I turn to face him, his brow is furrowed in concern.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I know it's been harder to get comfortable lately. Anything I can do for you?"
"I'm not a problem that needs fixing," I say through gritted teeth. "And even if there was a problem, I can fix it myself."
"I'm not saying you can't, Abby," he says slowly. "What’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not with you,” I snap. He takes a step back, looking completely bewildered.
“Did I do something wrong?” he continues. “If I did, please tell me so I can apologize. We can talk through it.”
“That’s the problem Jack,” I say through gritted teeth. “There is no we. There is me, and there is Little One, and that’s it. I get that I’ve let you hang around a lot, but that doesn’t make us a team. That doesn’t make us an us. Stop acting like it does. We aren’t a family.”
The color drains from his face, and the worst, most selfish part of me is glad my words found their mark. Glad that someone is feeling even a fraction of the pain that’s threatening to split me open right now.
“Don't say that," he croaks. "Don't say this is just 'hanging around.' You know it's more than that to me. You are more than that to me. Both of you. Where is this coming from?”
“It’s not coming from anywhere, Jack, it just is,” I continue, even as guilt wells up nauseatingly in my stomach. “Little One is my family. Aaron was my family. But he’s gone, and as much as you might want to, you can’t replace him.”
“Abby, that’s never been what this is for me,” he says desperately. “I don’t want to replace him at all, I would never pretend that I could. I just want to be here for you, to help–”
“Well, you’re not helping. You’ve made everything worse.
You swooped in to be some sort of hero instead of letting me handle this.
” The venomous words feel like ash in my mouth, but I spit them out anyway.
“And I let you do it. That’s on me. But that wasn’t your place.
It isn’t your place. This isn’t your place. And I want you to leave.”
For an uncomfortable, tense moment, he just stares at me, eyes flashing and jaw clenched. All I can do is stare back.
“Please don’t do this, Abby.”
“It’s done. Leave.”
“No.”
“Leave.”
I can see it—the exact moment the fight leaves his eyes. The exact moment his heart breaks.
It makes me want to scream.
“Is that really what you want?” he asks in a small voice.
No.
“Yes,” I say firmly.
He swallows hard, then nods curtly.
“Okay. I told you I'd stay for as long as you want. If it's not what you want anymore, I'll go.”
He looks at me longingly, hoping I'll say something else, that I'll change my mind. When I don't, he exits the kitchen, and I hear the distinct sound of belongings being stuffed hastily into a duffel bag. I don’t move from my chair when I hear him zip the bag shut, or when I hear him fold the bed back into the couch and start a load of laundry–the linens, I’m assuming.
Even as I'm kicking him out, he's still finding ways to make things easier on me.
I'm going to throw up.
I do, however, walk into the hallway when I hear his keys jingle in his hands as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder. He turns back to look at me, the hollowness in his eyes making the ten feet separating us feel more like an ocean between continents.
“For what it’s worth, I was never trying to replace Aaron,” he says. “I might not be family to you, but you and Aaron have always been family to me. And the last thing I ever wanted to do was cause you more pain. I’m so sorry if I did.”
You didn’t. I did this to myself.
But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I watch silently as the door closes behind him, unable to shake the feeling that I’m still lying to myself. That I haven’t avoided another loss at all.
That despite all my mental gymnastics and reasoning, all I’ve done is create a new kind of loss for us both–and I doubt if either of us is ever going to recover.