Page 127 of Your Soul to Keep

Who had called me mommy.

That old and familiar grief compelled me toward my laptop. Flipping the top up, I opened the app and typed in the name I hadn’t searched in years. Within seconds, they appeared smiling and laughing on my screen.

They looked beautiful, so much bigger and older.

With a sob, I touched my forefinger to their little faces.

They should have been mine. Maybe they could have been mine if I hadn’t given up.

I scrolled through one post after another, torturing myself with what might have been.

And then my blood ran cold.

Because not once had I looked at Gary.

And I wouldn’t recognize his wife if I passed her on the street.

I was only interested in the children.

In the end, was I any better than Gary? Because I’d just walked away from Gabe because he couldn’t give me the child I so desperately wanted.

Oh, God! How could I have left him standing there like that?

I had to call, apologize, beg him to forgive me and fix things. My eyes flew to the ceiling, as if my vision could penetrate wood and beams and drywall to find the box under my bed.

I was on my feet even as I clicked out of the app and closed my laptop.

It called to me in a way it hadn’t in years, but before I could get to it, the doorbell rang.

Gabe?

Had he followed me home? Relief rushed through me. He came, God, he came!

Hope and fear battled for dominance.

What would he say?

And would I be ready to hear it?

Tentatively, I walked down the hall, but the silhouette framed in the window under the porch light was tiny. I peered through the glass then threw the door open.

“Mrs. Wemberly?”

“Can’t you see it’s me, child? Are your eyes failing you now as well as your good sense?” Huffing out an agitated breath, she elbowed her way past me into the house.

“No, please, come right in,” I murmured.

“I heard that,” she snapped, not looking back as she shuffled into the kitchen. Her voice softened. “Put on the tea, lamb. I may not be long for this world, but I’ll be damned if I don’t go out with a good cuppa in my hand.”

Eyebrows rising, I made the tea while Mrs. Wemberly gently extracted an old ribbon-wrapped stack of envelopes from the depths of her massive carpet bag.

I delivered her cup of tea exactly how she liked it and slid into the chair next to her, hoping beyond hope this would be a quick visit. I needed to talk to Gabe. Maybe I should just drive there?

I’d barely spoken to Mrs. Wemberly since Nan passed though I’d seen her walking on the street with Mrs. Mason. All having lost their husbands a decade or more ago, she, Nan, and Mrs. Mason had kept each other company for all those years.

Every love story ends with a broken heart.

But not mine. Not yet, please, not yet.

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