17. Conrad #3
Three nights before Mother’s Day, I woke around two in the morning to panicked breathing outside my bedroom door. I opened it immediately. Bianca stood there crying. Her face was blotchy and wet, and it sent me into semi-panic mode.
“Hey,” I said softly.
She tried to speak and failed. Then she launched herself at me so suddenly I barely caught her properly.
“I had a nightmare,” she choked out against my shirt.
I carried her back to bed without thinking about it.
She curled against my side under the blankets while I smoothed hair back from her damp face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
For a long moment, she shook her head.
Then finally: “I dreamed Mom came home.”
God. I clenched my teeth, preparing for the details of the dream.
“She was downstairs,” Bianca whispered. “And everybody was happy because she was back, but then I realized nobody else could actually see her except me.”
I swallowed hard.
“And she kept trying to tell me something,” Bianca continued shakily, “but I couldn’t understand her, and then she started getting farther away and farther away and?—”
She broke again. I pulled her closer immediately. “It’s okay.”
“I know she’s dead,” Bianca said miserably. “I know she is. So why does my brain keep doing this to me?”
Because grief was cruel.
Because love didn’t disappear just because someone died.
Because children weren’t supposed to lose mothers this young.
But I couldn’t say any of that without sounding helpless. So, I kissed the top of her head and stayed with her until she finally fell asleep sometime near dawn.
Then I emailed work. Taking PTO today. Family emergency. There was no hesitation or guilt, just an immediate protective reaction. I needed to be home with my kids.
When Winnie arrived that morning, she took one look at the atmosphere in the kitchen and immediately understood something was wrong.
CJ sat hunched over cereal without talking.
Billie was coloring aggressively. Bianca looked exhausted.
None of them were talking. That alone was a dead giveaway that something was seriously wrong.
Winnie set down her bag slowly. “What happened?”
I rubbed tiredness out of my face. “Mother’s Day is on Sunday.”
A sudden, quiet empathy anchored her gaze. “Oh.”
She understood grief. I didn’t know exactly how or why, but she did.
“I took the day off,” I said quietly.
“Good.”
Bianca pushed cereal around her bowl. “I hate May.”
Billie nodded solemnly. “It makes my tummy feel funny.”
CJ sighed.
Winnie slid into the chair beside Billie and rested her chin on her hand. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps we should fight back.”
“Against Mother’s Day?” CJ asked.
“Against sadness,” Winnie corrected.
Bianca frowned slightly. “That sounds like a made-up solution.”
Winnie smiled. “Made up or not, I think it will work.”
“Can we commit crimes?” Billie asked.
“No.”
“A small crime?”
“Still no.”
CJ perked up slightly. “What kind of fight back are you referring to?”
Winnie looked at me, and something passed between us. An idea formed in my mind.
I leaned back in my chair slowly. “Your mom hated gloomy memorial stuff.”
Bianca sniffed. “She thought sad flower arrangements should be banned.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “She only liked the brightest, happiest of flower arrangements.”
CJ smiled faintly.
“Tell me about her,” Winnie said. “Tell me everything you can think of about your mom.”
I found myself smiling before I even realized I was doing it. “Jade loved themed parties.”
CJ groaned. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“She made us dress as sea creatures for Bianca’s fourth birthday,” I recalled.
“I was a jellyfish,” Bianca said quietly.
“You cried because CJ called you a squid.”
Even Bianca laughed a little at that.
I looked over at Winnie. She listened so intently—a quality not many possessed. And those who did were still too distracted by technology and this fast-moving world to give another human that much attentiveness. It was impressive. And it made people want to keep talking.
“She used to dance in the kitchen while she was cooking,” I said. “God, she was a terrible dancer.”
“I did not dance terribly,” Bianca said automatically in a pitch-perfect imitation of her mother.
The table dissolved into startled laughter.
Even me. Especially me.
God, I missed her.
Winnie’s eyes softened. “What else?”
The morning turned into a planning session instead of a symphony of grief. We tossed ideas around, including Jade’s favorite foods and places. All things Jade loved and things the kids remembered. Things they missed.
At one point, Billie suggested fireworks indoors.
Denied immediately.
CJ wanted a dramatic slideshow with orchestral music.
Possibly.
Bianca wanted historical accuracy in all maternal storytelling.
Naturally.
Winnie listened and contributed, occasionally catching my eye in a way that made me feel alive again.
As the kids argued over whether Jade would’ve preferred tulips or peonies, Winnie leaned closer beside me and said, “She sounds extraordinary.”
I looked at my children. At this strange, beautiful life slowly rebuilding itself around grief instead of inside it.
“She was.” Then, before I could stop myself, I looked at Winnie and added, “You are too.”