Fifty #2
I watch helplessly as my children, my world, fall apart before my eyes.
Crying for an amazing woman who left this earth far too soon.
Ollie’s tears begin to subside, but his hiccups still punctuate the air, easing as he takes in his siblings.
He climbs off me and cautiously makes his way toward Jake, who is a broken mess on the floor.
I’m seconds away from joining them, from letting the grief consume me entirely.
“Jake,” Ollie says, his voice small but firm, reaching for his brother, pulling him away from his own personal hell. Jake looks up, his eyes swollen and red, and opens his arms. Ollie goes willingly, wrapping his small arms around his big brother, clinging on.
Maddy, still on her knees, looks up, her eyes finding her brothers.
She crawls over, her movements slow and deliberate, and joins them.
Together, they hold one another, a tight, desperate knot of shared grief for the loss of their mother, who was a constant presence, an endless comfort, someone who helped shape the very core of their identities.
As for me, I’ve lost my closest companion, my emotional home, my partner in everything. Losing her feels like losing a vital part of myself, a limb amputated without an ounce of mercy.
“Dad?”
I pull myself away from the crushing weight of my thoughts, focusing on my children. They are now standing, huddled together, looking utterly broken. And in that moment, I finally give in.
I open my arms wide, and they run into them.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, kissing the tops of their heads, one after another. The kids cry in my arms, and I hold them tighter than I ever have before, trying to absorb their pain.
“We’re going to be okay. We will get through this,” I promise.
We pull apart, and I look down at them, offering a shaky, watery smile.
“It’s okay to feel sad, angry, and confused.
All of that is okay, and I’m going to feel those things too.
But I want you to know that we’re still a family, and we’re going to get through this together. I am going to take care of all of you.”
Maddy hiccups, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Jake puts his arm around her trembling shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay, sis,” he reassures her. “Dad’s right. We’re going to be okay. Dad will take care of us. It’s what Mom would’ve wanted.”
A fresh wave of tears wells in his eyes, but he holds his facade in place for his sister.
“Was Mama in pain?” Ollie asks.
I shake my head, my throat tight. “No, buddy. Your mom was asleep.”
“That’s good,” he replies, nodding. “I don’t want Mama to be in pain.”
“Me neither, buddy.”
“At least she wasn’t alone,” Maddy says, her voice cracking.
My chin quivers, and I suck in a sharp breath.
No. She wasn’t. I held her, I tell myself, for one last time.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jake says.
“I’m sorry too, son.”
The sudden chime of the doorbell rips through the heavy atmosphere. I wipe the tears from my face with my hand. “That’s the hospice nurse and the funeral home. To take care of your mom.”
More tears spill from their already swollen eyes.
I look up to see movement. Sam stands in the doorway, pale and a wreck, her eyes red-rimmed.
“I’ll get it,” she says numbly as she walks toward the front door.
“When Auntie Sam returns, I want you to go with her while I help the nurse with your mom, okay?” I instruct the kids.
“Can we say goodbye?” Maddy asks.
“It’s up to you,” I tell them. “But keep in mind that your mother will look different. She will be very still, quiet, and cold, and she won’t be able to hear or see you.”
“I don’t want to see Mama cold,” Ollie says, his lower lip trembling.
“That’s okay, buddy,” I reassure him, pulling him close for a quick squeeze.
Sam walks back in, then a nurse with a kind, somber face behind her, followed by two solemn gentlemen holding a gurney.
“Sam, can you take Ollie to the kitchen, please?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, her eyes showing she understands. Ollie goes to her arms without question, resting his head on her shoulder. “Do you want some warm milk, buddy? To help you sleep?” she asks, rubbing his back.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and they disappear into the kitchen.
The nurse looks to me, her expression kind. “Hello, Ethan. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to check on Lily, okay?” she says.
“Can the kids say goodbye first?” I ask her, my voice strained.
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
I turn to Jake and Maddy. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Maddy, her face still tear-streaked, shakes her head vigorously. “No, no. I don’t want to see her that way.”
“That’s okay, sweet pea,” I say. “There are other ways to say goodbye to your mom.”
“Like what?” she asks, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
“You can write her a letter, draw her a picture, or we can plant a memory garden in her honor.”
The dimness in her eyes recedes a fraction, replaced by a tiny spark of light. “Like a lily and rose garden?”
“Exactly. Whatever you want it to be.”
“She would like that,” she whispers, a small, fragile smile touching her lips.
“Yes, she would love it,” I add.
“Come on, Maddy. Let’s go join Sam and Ollie,” Jake says, his voice still hoarse, ushering her gently. But before she leaves, Maddy throws herself into my arms. “I love you, Daddy. I’m sorry you lost Mom, too.”
I close my eyes, holding her tight. “Me too, sweet pea. Me too. I love you so much.” Giving her one last, lingering squeeze, I let her go, watching them walk into the kitchen.
Once Jake and Maddy are gone, I turn to the nurse, my shoulders slumping, the last of my resolve crumbling. “I’m ready.”
She gives me a sad, understanding smile. I lead her and the two men down the hall toward our bedroom.
I push open the door, and the familiar, comforting scent of lavender hits me hard. My eyes lock onto Lily, who now has a pristine white sheet drawn up to her chin. Sam’s last act of love, I realize.
The nurse walks to the bed and leans over Lily, placing a finger on her neck, a silent confirmation of what we already knew. Then she retrieves her stethoscope, pressing the diaphragm to Lily’s chest for a moment, listening to the absence of her beating heart, before tucking it away.
“Ethan,” the nurse says, her voice still soft. “These men will now place Lily onto the gurney and drive her to the funeral home for preparations.”
Reluctantly, I give a slight nod. I take a step closer to the bed and look down at Lily, my eyes tracing every beloved feature.
I swallow a lump, a jagged stone in my throat, and lean down one last time and whisper, “Your fight is over, Sunshine. You can rest now. We are going to be okay.”
I press my lips to hers, a final, desperate kiss. They are cold, so incredibly cold.
The shock of it, the absolute, undeniable finality, makes me break down all over again, a fresh wave of agony washing over me, consuming me whole.
She’s gone.
My Lily is gone.
Goodbye, Sunshine.