43 | Jessica
Jessica
Mike is sitting next to me, his hand barely touching mine as we sit on the window ledge looking outside, as the first light of dawn bursts through the tree line of the property. I can tell he wants to ask more, know more, but he doesn’t—and as much as I appreciate it, I want to share this with him.
I continue talking, sharing parts of my story that I haven’t shared before with anyone.
“I remember the days leading to the birth of my baby brother. My mother was so happy.” My words barely come out.
From the way Mike is looking at me right now, I can tell the subject might be a little too close to home for him as well.
He doesn’t say anything. He is letting me speak, sharing my pain, like it is the most important thing for him in this world.
“When her water broke, we called the midwife to the house; my mother was screaming for dear God on her bedroom floor. My father was pacing in the hallway, and I knew something was very wrong.” My voice barely comes out, but I need to share this with him.
I need him to know my demons if I want him to share his.
And that’s exactly what I want. I want them to let me in.
I want to be a part of their family, because that’s what these men are to each other: a family.
And it feels as if I haven’t had one since my mother died.
I need to feel this love again. I need to feel like I belong.
“She was a brave woman, who fought until her last breath. She pushed with every ounce of her strength. She was screaming, scratching the floor in pure agony. And as the first cry of my brother was heard, my mother took her last breath, and the world became a dark place.”
“Jessica, I am so sorry. You don’t need to tell me the rest if it pains you,” he tells me, and wipes a tear off my cheek.
“No,” I respond firmly. “I want to.”
I take a sharp breath before continuing.
It pains me to remember, but it needs to be done.
“Forty-eight hours he lived—my brother, that is. I never knew what was wrong with him. My father just arranged for both their funerals. He refused to get an autopsy. He did not want to know the reason, and in a way, I don’t blame him.
I did everything in my power to help that baby.
He kept crying for all those hours he was alive.
His cries haunt me to this day.” I hide my face between my hands, now sobbing silently, embarrassed to look at his face.
Mike pulls me closer and holds me tight, stroking my hair and whispering to me, “Everything will be fine, Jess.”
I would give anything to believe him. Anything to feel actually safe, not just for a few moments.
I know I need to continue. I need to tell him everything.
I might not have another chance to share my story with someone.
I am not a fool to think the guys will stay with me after realizing how broken I am.
But if there’s a chance—even a small one—I need them to know everything first. Deep down, I hope that if I share this side of me, they will realize I belong with them.
I am as broken as all of them. I belong with them.
“After their funerals, my father lost himself in his bottle. I was left alone to fend for myself. He did not care about me in the slightest. He kept food on the table and maintained the house with whatever job he could find for a short period of time, until they realized his alcohol problem and fired him. The debt kept growing, so when I turned sixteen, I decided to quit school and start working,” I tell him between sobs and tears.
“I blamed myself for what happened, you know. Maybe if I had noticed earlier that something was wrong. Maybe if I had begged him to take her to the hospital, they might have lived. I tried everything in my power to help him after, but it feels like my father died alongside my mother all those years ago.” A sigh of relief escapes me; finally sharing this part of myself feels like an elephant has moved its foot from my heart.
Mike stays silent. He continues holding me as I sob in his arms without saying a word. And that makes me feel almost loved, as if he actually cares. Deep down, I am sure this won’t last, but right now, I savor every bit of affection he has to offer.