Page 1 of Everlasting Promises

PROLOGUE

HOPE

Grief.

The dictionary says it’s a noun, but I beg to differ.

How can something that takes over your entire existence be a noun, not a verb?

It grows from nothing at an exponential rate in mere seconds. It’s a living entity that molds and changes who you are at your very core, affecting you physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally.

The very definition says it’sdeep and poignant distress caused by, or as if by, bereavement. But it’s more like an insidious disease that seeps through your mind and body, stealing your hopes … your dreams. Your future.

It steals the very essence of who you are.

It steals your life.

It steals your soul.

It irrevocably changes the very fabric of your being.

1

HOPE

Sitting on the wooden bench,I watch Wyatt push Evan on his favorite swing. Evan’s giggles echo through the park, joining the other sounds of children playing, and I grin.Thisis what contentment feels like. Watching the love of my life play with our son.

“Higher, Daddy!” Evan squeals in delight, kicking his little legs.

Wyatt looks over at me with raised brows, asking me if I’m okay with our son wanting to go higher on the swing. We’ve always been able to read each other’s thoughts and communicate silently; I guess it comes from knowing each other for such a long time.

“Not too high,” I call out, getting more comfortable on the bench. I know we’ll be here a while.

Wyatt pushes him a little harder, and the swing goes higher. Evan cheers, his eyes sparkling beneath the morning sunlight, his hair going every which way as he swings back and forth.He loves flying through the air. I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes a pilot when he grows up.

“I wanna go on the slide,” Evan sings, so Wyatt slows the swing to a stop and helps him climb down.

Standing, I hold out my hand to Evan, and he wraps his tiny fingers around mine. Wyatt’s too wide to fit through the tunnel at the top of the slide, so I always end up going with Evan because he’s too little to go on his own. When we climb to the top, I glance at Wyatt and see him speaking with a boy wearing a backpack. I smile at my husband as he helps the young boy onto the swing and begins to push him.

Peeling my gaze away from my kind-hearted husband, I situate myself behind Evan at the top of the slide inside the tunnel. A huge explosion bursts through the bird song and children’s laughter, shaking the slide and making it unstable. With my heart racing like a wild horse, I quickly scoot us forward, slipping down the slide so we can get to safety before it collapses.

Flames and charred playground equipment become visible as we clear the tunnel, and terror-filled screams pierce the air. I snap my head toward the swings where I last saw Wyatt, but he’s not there. As soon as my feet hit the sand at the bottom of the slide, I scoop Evan into my arms and take off at a break-neck sprint toward the swings. Charred limbs send long, ribbon-like fingers of smoke upward, and the stench of burning flesh has me doubling over, crushing Evan against me as I scream until everything turns black.

Jolting upward, my heart pounding like a herd of elephants in my chest, I realize I’m no longer at the playground, but safe in my bed. My throat is raw, my body dripping in sweat, and my sheets twist around me, trapping me in place. My gasp echoes in the silent room as I try to draw a breath that doesn’t carry the terror of my dream into my starved lungs. I gulp down airlike my life depends on it and tear the sheets from my body with furious hands, then drop back to my pillow, squeezing my eyes closed. When the visual remnants of my dream continue to linger, I snap them open again and stare unseeing at the ceiling.

My chest heaves with a sob, and tears stream down the side of my face, soaking into my hair. Over the years, I’ve repeatedly had some version of this dream, as if my subconscious is filling in the blanks of my husband’s death, even though he was thousands of miles away in Syria when it happened. It’s not like I was there. All I know is what the officers told me when they knocked on my door in the middle of the night, almost six years ago.

Not even Shane, Wyatt’s best friend, who was also impacted by the blast, could fill in the blanks. Nix, Wyatt’s commanding officer, refused to discuss the horrific moment when a young boy carrying a backpack concealing an explosive device asked my husband to play soccer with him.

In the beginning, I had dreams almost every night. Over time, they’ve lessened, but they still happen occasionally.

This is what living with grief is like.

It’s a weird thing. Just when I think I’m beginning to live aroundit,itcomes up, slaps me in the face, and I land on my ass in proverbial quicksand that sucks me in and won’t let go. I can fightit, but the more I do, the deeperitdrags me intoitsdepths.

Weeks—sometimes even months—can pass while I live life like everyone else, and then, out of the blue,ithits.

Grief.

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