Page 48 of The Weight of Her Silence
“I see it now,” he whispered.
“Too late.”
A tear escaped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
“Go home,” she said softly.
“Take care of them.”
But Nate didn’t move.
He stood at her bedside long after she fell asleep again, watching her chest rise and fall as machines hummed around her. He thought of the years they’d spent together.
The vows.
The silence.
The slow erosion.
He thought of Camille and the fire he let burn when he should’ve been holding this woman instead.
He had two lives now. One built on lust and deception, the other crumbling beneath him.
And for the first time, Nate couldn’t run from the weight of what he had done.
???
The house didn’t feel like home anymore. Ava sat on the living room floor, knees pulled tightly to her chest, staring blankly at the carpet.
Caleb was curled up on the couch, face buried into a pillow he hadn’t let go of since they’d come home from the hospital. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
The silence was thick. Not peaceful—but weighted, like grief had found its way in and made itself comfortable.
"Is she gonna die?" Caleb’s voice was small.
Ava looked at him sharply.
He didn’t sound angry—just scared. The kind of fear that lodged deep, where even a breath felt like too much to carry.
"No," she said, too quickly.
He stared at her, unconvinced.
"She’s going to get better," she added, quieter.
“She has to.”
But the look on their father’s face at the hospital had told them otherwise.
Caleb rubbed his eyes and whispered, "She knew.
Didn’t she?"
Ava nodded, slow.
"Yeah. I think she did."
Caleb was quiet, then said, "She was writing letters last week. She said they were for later. When we’re older.”
