Page 101 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
And, Dad. He shows up with a toolbox and a quiet kind of devotion I didn’t know I needed. He tightens wobbly doorknobs, replaces smoke detector batteries, fixes stuck kitchen drawers. Mows the lawn without being asked, then sits on the porch like he’s guarding the whole house.
No one complains. No one asks how long they’ll be needed.
They’d do anything for me.
Which makes it worse.
Because I don’t know how to deserve it. Or, how I’ll ever pay them back.
God, I hate requiring so much help. Hate I can’t be a good mom. Hate the grief making everything thick and heavy. Hate waking up from dreams where Cooper’s brushing his teeth, shirtless and smiling at me like nothing ever happened.
I fucking hate waking up.Period.
My fingers trace the stack of hospital invoices. The ER. The OR. The pediatric ICU. I memorize the acronyms because they’re easier to face than the truth underneath.
We were driving home from dinner.
We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary other than deciding to share a huge ice cream sundae knowing we’d get home a little later than the kids’ bedtime. A treat for all of us. When we finished and buckled into the SUV, all of us sang along to the radio. I remember reaching back to hand Jude his stuffed elephant.
Then headlights. Metal. Screaming.
Silence.
I push the paperwork away and press my forehead to the table.
I can’t do this.
How can I possibly live a life Cooper was supposed to be in? I don’t know how to stop pretending I’m okay and actuallybeokay. Or how to stop resenting the fact I can’t crawl into a hole and hibernate for a year. Or two. Or ten.
The front door opens, cheerful voices tumble in.
Jude’s giggle. Mom’s gentle reminder to take off their shoes. Lila singing like she’s destined to be the next Taylor Swift.
I wipe the tears from my face. Force my spine straight. Close the folder.
Put on my metaphorical big girl panties.
For Cooper.
For our children.
I’m all they’ve got and I won’t let them down.
twenty-nine
Padraig
A Few Days Later
Mysoncriessomuch, I almost don’t register it anymore.
The sound is constant. Either high-pitched and piercing. Or whimpering and pathetically ragged. His agony scrapes the inside of my skull, disappears before I can catch my breath then repeats.
Rafferty McLoughlin is two months old with premature lungs, premature nerves, premature everything. His entire mind and body is tender and forming. He shrieks when the light shifts. Howls when I change his diaper. Whimpers when I rock him too slow or speak too loud or touch him with a shirt that’s too scratchy.
I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone more in my life.
You’ll often find me standing over his bassinet like a guard. Not a soldier, not a father.
