Sunny
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for eternity.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Liam finally said, his voice tight with controlled emotion.
She had never felt more alone than in that sterile room with its medical posters and antiseptic smell.
The isolation triggered a memory she’d long tried to bury — sitting in a similar institutional room sixteen years earlier, legs dangling off a chair too tall for her nine-year-old frame.
The social worker had stepped out “just for a minute” after explaining that her foster family had decided they “weren’t a good fit” after all.
Three hours she’d waited in that room with its beige walls and motivational posters, clutching her small backpack of belongings. Three hours of staring at the door, hope gradually fading with each passing minute, until she finally understood that no one was rushing to claim her.
That same crushing pressure in her chest, that same suspended animation — waiting for someone to arrive and make everything better, knowing deep down that some things couldn’t be fixed.
But not even during her worst days in foster care had she experienced this particular flavor of isolation — the unique solitude of carrying grief for someone who had barely existed, yet had already claimed such a significant place in her heart.
True to his word, Liam arrived in exactly fifteen minutes.
Sunny heard his voice in the hallway first — deep, urgent, demanding to know where she was. When the door swung open, he stood frozen for a moment, still in his practice clothes, hair damp with sweat, eyes wild with fear.
“Sunny,” he breathed, crossing the room in two long strides. His arms encircled her, strong and solid, smelling of ice and exertion. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She pressed her face into his chest, drawing a shuddering breath. “I started cramping this morning. Then spotting. The doctor says… the doctor says…” The words stuck in her throat, refusing to emerge.
Liam’s body tensed against hers. “The baby?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Sunny could only shake her head, still pressed against him.
His arms tightened around her, one hand cradling the back of her head with such tender protectiveness that something inside her finally broke. The tears came then — not gentle weeping, but gut-wrenching sobs that doubled her over in his arms.
Liam held her through it, his own tears falling silently onto her hair. She could feel the rapid thudding of his heart, the slight tremor in his hands as they stroked her back, the careful way he supported her weight when her body threatened to buckle.
Dr Chen returned to find them locked in this embrace. Sunny’s sobs quieted to hiccupping breaths. With gentle efficiency, Dr Chen explained the procedure to both of them — a D&C to ensure all tissue was removed, preventing complications.
“It’s a short procedure,” she assured them. “You’ll be able to go home today.”
Liam nodded repeatedly, asking practical questions about recovery and follow-up care while Sunny remained silent. She recognized what he was doing — focusing on concrete details, things he could control. It was so characteristically Liam, using logistics to process overwhelming emotion.
The procedure itself passed in a blur of soft voices and gentle hands.
Liam never left her side, his calloused palm wrapped around her fingers, anchoring her to the present when her mind threatened to float away.
She focused on that connection — the solid warmth of his skin against hers — while doctors and nurses moved efficiently around them.
Afterward, the physical emptiness mirrored the emotional void. Sunny felt hollow, scraped clean of both life and hope. The pain medication dulled the physical discomfort but did nothing for the ache spreading through her chest.
“Ready to go home?” Liam asked softly, kneeling beside the recovery chair where she sat. His eyes were red-rimmed, deep shadows forming beneath them despite the early hour. He looked as devastated as she felt, yet he was holding himself together, staying strong for her.
Home. The Anderson house with its family photos and children’s artwork. The place where they had begun to build a future together. The thought of returning there — of resuming normal life when nothing would ever be normal again — seemed impossible.
But the girls would be home from school soon. They needed stability, routine. They couldn’t become collateral damage to this grief.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Let’s go home.”
The drive passed in heavy silence. Sunny stared out the window, numbly registering how the world continued its ordinary rhythm. People walked dogs, posted mail, laughed on cell phones — all unaware that inside this car, two people were drowning in grief.
Liam kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on her knee — a tenuous connection that somehow made the silence bearable. His knuckles were white with tension, jaw tight with words unsaid. Sunny placed her hand over his, feeling the slight tremor beneath her palm.
When they reached the house, Sunny hesitated in the driveway, suddenly reluctant to go inside. This morning, she had left carrying their future within her. Now she returned empty, diminished.
“The girls are still at school,” Liam said quietly, misinterpreting her hesitation. “They won’t be home for a few hours.”
Sunny nodded, finally allowing him to guide her inside. The house felt strange, almost unfamiliar, as if the morning’s events had altered its very substance. Had it really been just hours ago that she’d made pancakes in the kitchen, hiding her worry from the girls?
In the entryway, reality crashed over her with renewed force.
A small pink backpack leaned against the wall — Hailey’s, forgotten in the morning rush.
A math worksheet with Maddie’s careful handwriting lay on the side table.
These ordinary objects, these remnants of the family life they had been building, broke something fundamental inside her.
“I can’t,” she gasped, knees buckling. “I can’t pretend everything’s okay when they come home. I can’t—”
Liam caught her as she collapsed, gathering her in his arms and carrying her upstairs to her bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed, then stretched out beside her, pulling her against his chest. Only then, in the safety of their private space, did he finally break.
His body shook with silent sobs, face buried in her hair. Sunny twisted in his arms to hold him properly, their grief mingling as they clung to each other. There were no words, only the shared language of loss.
“It’s not fair,” she finally whispered, her voice rough from crying. “We only had a few days to be happy about it.”
“I know,” Liam murmured against her temple.
“Why us? Hasn’t there been enough loss already?”
He had no answer for that, only the solid warmth of his embrace.
They lay together as minutes stretched into hours, drifting between devastated wakefulness and exhausted dozing.
Occasionally one would break into fresh tears, setting the other off in a renewed wave of grief.
It was raw, messy, and completely shared — the first experience of their relationship where no words were needed, no explanations required.
Eventually, the distant sound of the front door opening broke through their bubble of sorrow. The girls were home from school.
“I should…” Liam began, reluctantly pulling away.
“We should,” Sunny corrected, wiping her eyes. “They’ll be confused if we’re both hiding up here.”
The effort it took to sit up, to smooth her hair and splash water on her swollen face, was monumental. Sunny stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the hollow-eyed woman who stared back. How could she possibly face the girls with this grief still so raw?
But she did. They both did.
Downstairs, Liam transformed before her eyes — his posture straightening, expression shifting into something resembling normalcy as he greeted his daughters. Sunny watched in amazement as he compartmentalized, tucking away his pain to protect the girls.
“Daddy! Sunny!” Hailey launched herself at them. “We had a substitute today and she let us have extra recess!”
“That’s great, pumpkin,” Liam replied, his voice impressively steady as he hugged her.
Maddie followed more slowly, her perceptive eyes scanning both their faces. “Why are you both home? Beth said Sunny had a doctor’s appointment, but she didn’t say anything about you, Daddy.”
“I, uh…” Liam faltered briefly. “I had a shorter practice today. Thought I’d come home early.”
Sunny stepped in, summoning a smile that felt like shattered glass on her lips. “How about a snack? I think we still have those apple slices and peanut butter you like.”
The familiar routines of after-school snacks and homework supervision provided a lifeline, something to focus on beyond the gaping wound of their loss.
Sunny moved mechanically through these tasks, her body present while her mind drifted in a fog of grief.
She caught Liam watching her several times, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
As the evening progressed, she noticed a subtle shift in his demeanor. Where he had been physically and emotionally present in the hospital room and during their shared breakdown upstairs, he now seemed to be retreating, his responses becoming more automatic, his eyes more distant.
During dinner — takeout pizza that neither adult could stomach but the girls devoured — Sunny watched him checking his phone repeatedly, scrolling through messages with fierce concentration.
“Is everything okay?” she asked quietly when the girls were distracted by an argument about the last slice.
“Just team stuff,” he replied, not meeting her eyes. “Nothing important.”