Page 98 of Let Me

“I think you can, too, Autumn, but only if you lean on the family for support.Don’t shut them out.”

“You’re right.I think I should try to go home tomorrow, and before you ask, no, I’m not ready for it, but it has to be done, right?It’s our home.I’ll feel more connected to him there.”

“I mean, I’m down to come with you.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Autumn, you haven’t been there in a month.It’s going to be difficult.”

“I know.A lot of things in my life will be difficult for the foreseeable future, but I have to get through them for my baby’s sake.”

“Well, you know I’m down to support you in everything, so if you get there and you need me to come stay with you or anything, just call me.”

“I appreciate that, Riley.Thank you.I honestly don’t know how I would get through this without you.”

“Of course.You’re my best friend.I wouldn’t dare let you go through this alone.I love you, girl.”

“I love you, too.”

“And I love you too, little peanut,” she says, placing a hand on my stomach.Then she embraces me and tells me that she won’t let me leave the house until I’ve eaten all of the soup.

Chapter 42

Riley offered to drop me off and walk with me inside, but some journeys in life, you have to take alone.Going back home after the ordeal I went through is hard, but I feel I must do it for myself.

I park in the driveway behind Judah’s car that still sits there like he’s here, inside waiting for me when I know he’s not.

“You can do this, Autumn.No, we can do this,” I say, placing my right hand on my stomach.“You ready, Judah?”

I feel him move.I smile and say, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He’s ready.

I’m ready.

I get out of my car and waddle to the front porch steps.If my mother knew I was doing this alone, she’d whip my butt, so it’s a good thing she doesn’t know.Perhaps Judah’s parents saw me pull in the driveway.I’m not sure, but I’m not concerned about that at the moment.I’m focused.

I open the door, immediately feeling him – feels like he’s here.

Heishere.This is our home.This place was my husband’s sanctuary.

Taking slow steps inside, I take off my shoes and stand here, looking around.I pull in the scent that reminds me of us – of happier times.I envision him standing behind the counter in the kitchen the many nights he stood right there and drank water while watching me.I think about the many times we sat on this sofa and enjoyed each other without the TV for entertainment.It was just us.

With weak, wobbly legs, I walk further inside and touch the sofa, feeling warmth spread all over me.I take quiet steps down the hallway to the nursery.Stuff I ordered to fix it up is still in boxes on the floor.Judah had started putting the crib together a few weeks before he passed.I never thought he’d finish it.He was taking so long.Now, I know why.He was sick.He hid it from me.He didn’t want me to worry.The cancer had returned, but it was ultimately a seizure that took his life.

I step into our bedroom.The sight of his slippers next to the bed brings me sadness and comfort.I walk there, sit down, and slide my feet into them.I grin and say, “Daddy had some big feet, Junior.You’ll probably have his big feet, too.”

I take a breath, fight back tears, and look at his nightstand.His phone is sitting here.I pick it up to turn it on, but the battery is dead.I put it on the charger, anxious to see the selfies of us once it charges.

Pulling open the top drawer of his nightstand, I see his things – cologne, miscellaneous papers and a notebook.I take it out and open it, hoping to see his handwriting, but as I flip through, all I see are blank pages.I sigh deeply, place it back, and rub my stomach.I close the drawer and pick up his watch.I hold it in front of my nose.Oh, it smells like him.I take greedy breaths of it and close my eyes.

“I miss you so much, Judah.”

I set it back on the nightstand and then pull open the bottom drawer.There, I see an orange envelope – those letter-sized ones people use to mail important documents.I take it out and open the metal clasps that have it fastened together.When I unfasten it, I see papers – ones from the notebook.My eyes fill with tears when I see his handwriting.

Letter to my son, to be given to him on his eighth birthday.

“Oh my God,” I say, covering my mouth.He wrote Junior a letter.Even in death, he’s selfless.

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