Page 28 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

So when he got inside, he was worriedly calling my name.

“Here,” I called up, patting my cheeks one last time before heading to find him in the living room.

His eyes immediately zeroed in on my face. “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

I swallowed hard, the words stuck in my throat.

The tears welled in my eyes, however, and he hurried toward me.

“Baby,” he said, cupping my face. “Are you hurt?”

“Not exactly.” I licked my lips, tasting the salt of my tears.

“Tell me,” he said. “I’ll fix it, whatever it is.”

Not this time, my Dixie.

I studied his face for a long time before saying, “It’s bad, Dixie.”

“Is it a dead body?” he asked. “I can handle a dead body.”

I knew he was trying to lighten my mood, but it only made me cry harder.

Of course he’d be willing to deal with a dead body for me.

He was my hero.

Feeling helpless, he pulled me into his embrace, his head coming to a rest on top of my own as he said, “Shh, baby. Shh.”

Only when the sobs turned to sniffles did he say, “Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me.”

I closed my eyes.

Then I told him about my nightmare.

His breath caught. “Are you sure?”

I nodded against his chest. “The doctor said it was bad.”

“How bad?”

I felt sick to my stomach when I said, “Not making it out alive, bad.”

“No,” he immediately disagreed. “Baby, we have to go to the doctor so they can tell us. Don’t worry. We’ll get the full story before we worry too much.”

I pulled away from him and wiped my eyes.

“Dixie…” I swiped away more tears.

When I did, he looked at a Post-it Note that was to the left of my head.

“What’s this?” he croaked.

I looked at all the bright yellow Post-it Notes that were everywhere.

Then I explained.

“Baby, we don’t know for sure,” he said. “We don’t…”

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