Page 3 of Rest In Peace

"Act like a child? I'm not the one who needs to fill the silence with pointless chatter because they can't handle their daughter leaving for college!"

His words stung, finding their mark with brutal precision. I gripped the edge of the counter, feeling the sting of tears threatening behind my eyes. I wanted to scream, to unleash the storm of emotions that whirled within me—grief for Olivia's absence, guilt over Matt's injury that caused him to lose a part of his leg, the suffocating helplessness.

"Maybe if you'd try to see past your own pain, you'd realize we're all hurting," I managed through clenched teeth, my heart pounding with fury and sorrow.

"Save it. I'm not the one falling apart," he shot back, the venom in his voice cutting through the remnants of family harmony like a knife.

"Mom, Matt, please stop," Christine's plea broke through our escalating war of words, pulling us back from the brink.

"Sorry, sweetheart," I murmured, deflated, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had surged. It wasn't their battle to bear.

"Me too," Matt muttered, though his apology was directed more at the floor than Christine or me.

The kids gathered their things, escaping the battleground that our home had become. I watched them go, each step away from us a tiny ache, and wondered how many mornings we could endure before we were nothing but fragments, held together by habit and shared history rather than love and understanding.

That's when my phone vibrated on the counter. I grabbed it, relieved to be pulled away from our conversation. The past couple of months hadn't been easy on us. We were fighting a lot, and I felt so guilty every time because I knew he was struggling. Matt's son, Elijah, had been at his grandmother's for a few weeks, and we didn’t know when he would be back. Matt hadn't had the energy to be a father to him since he was shot on duty and lost his leg. But it was painful to watch how Elijah still tried to connect with his dad, but Matt wouldn't let him in. He didn't like for his son to see him like this.Our three-year-old, Angel, had been spending a lot of time at my mom’s house lately and was there for a few days now, giving me the extra time and space to take care of Matt or at least help him the best I could. He was going to rehabilitation five days of the week but still not making a lot of progress. His physical therapist, Dan, said it was hard to keep him motivated.

I picked up my phone, the weight of the situation heavy on my shoulders. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Hello?" I answered, my voice betraying my worry.

It was Emily on the other end of the line, a friend I had met at the support group I had recently joined to help me navigate this new situation. She understood the unique pain that came with being a spouse or relative of someone who had been injured in war or on the job. Her voice trembled with concern and disbelief as she began speaking.

"Hey, it's me," she started, her words faltering slightly. "Something's happened… to Sarah Chapman."

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of Sarah's name. In the support group sessions, Sarah and I had connected on a level that felt profound. We shared our fears, our frustrations, and our journey toward healing. She appeared fragile and vulnerable, but beneath that facade was a strength I knew she could use to make it if only she stayed sober, which she had been good at lately.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She… she was arrested last night. For murder.”

Chapter 2

THEN:

The afternoon light spilled like molten gold through the half-open blinds, casting long, lazy shadows across Victoria's bedroom. Sarah stood in the doorway, her silhouette elongated on the pastel carpet, watching her daughter's chest rise and fall as she napped. The room was a sanctuary of soft pinks and stuffed animals, each chosen with love to create a haven for their little girl.

"Sweet dreams, my angel," Sarah whispered, tiptoeing closer to plant a tender kiss on Victoria's forehead. But as she drew near, her maternal instincts prickled with unease. Victoria's cheeks had a pallor that didn't belong amidst the rosy décor, a stillness too pronounced for the gentle flutter of slumber.

"Steven!" Her voice cut through the calm, sharp with fear. Footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor, growing louder as her husband approached from downstairs, where they had been watching TV.

"What's wrong?" Steven's words were breathless, tinged with the edge of his profession. His eyes, trained to notice the slightest aberration, immediately caught the worry lines etching Sarah's brow.

"Look at her, Steven. She's… she's too quiet."

Sarah's fingers trembled as she pointed, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribs.

Steven knelt beside the bed, his nurse's hands deft and sure as he checked Victoria's pulse, his eyes scanning for signs only he could read.

"This isn't right," he murmured, more to himself than to Sarah. His touch was clinical yet caring, a paradox honed by countless hours in sterile hospital corridors.

"Is she…" Sarah couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't give voice to the terror that clawed at her throat.

Please, let her be okay.

"We need to get her to the hospital right now."

Steven's voice was a command, brooking no argument, but the undercurrent of urgency propelled Sarah into action.

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