Page 105 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
Then I slide it into the labeled folder with the others, which I’ve organized and color-coded. One for life insurance. One for the umbrella policy. One for the driver’s criminal proceedings. Ikeep them in a portable file box now, tucked behind the staircase at my parents’ house like a briefcase for a life I didn’t ask for but don’t flinch from anymore.
Jude stacks train tracks by the Christmas tree while I work at the kitchen table. My leg’s elevated on a chair, iced and aching from the intense PT this morning. It’s not unbearable anymore, though.
I can’t kneel, run or walk down the steps normally, but I don’t need help to get out of bed and can walk 5000 steps.
Progress.
Across from me, Joni scrolls her phone with her headphones in. She knows I’m in the zone and fueled by half coffee, half adrenaline. A version of me has emerged I didn’t know existed.
The younger, take-charge version of myself is back. I track medical records, therapy schedules, legal correspondence, settlement timelines. Stevie 2.0 says no when doctors push too fast and yes when Isla cries in the middle of the night and needs to talk about her dad in heaven.
Somehow, old Stevie slowly disappeared once Jude came. Cooper began to handle everything. Bills. Finances. Home maintenance. Bedtime negotiations. It happened so gradually, I didn’t realize how much space he filled until he was gone and I couldn’t breathe under the weight of everything he left behind.
Now I’m doing it.Allof it. For the girls. For Jude. For me.
“I haven’t seen you much since I moved out. Wow, you’ve leveled up.” Joni breaks the silence quietly, like she doesn’t want to jinx it.
I glance up. “Well, I had no choice.”
“I’m proud of you. You’re a survivor,” she says. “You’re rebuilding.”
I press my palm to the page and smooth it flat, like I can iron out the worry.
“Eh? I’m figuring it out,” I say. “Some days feel steady. Some don’t.”
Joni doesn’t push.
“Isla’s afraid to get in the car,” I admit. “She started talking to the school counselor. I gave her permission to go whenever she needs, even if it’s in the middle of class. She’s painting and drawing a lot. Art therapy. It’s helping strengthen all the muscles in her hand.”
Joni tilts her head. “Amazing.”
“She draws him.” My voice trembles a bit. “What she remembers. What she misses. It guts me, but it’s good she’s letting it out.”
“And Lila?”
“She won’t talk about it. Not directly.” I sigh. “I’ve been planting seeds like leaving coloring pages on her nightstand, which are grief worksheets in disguise. I also bought her storybooks about memory and healing. I never ask if she reads them but I notice she slips them back into the drawer when she’s done.”
“Smart.”
I glance down to make sure Jude’s occupied. “She opens up more when she thinks I’m not listening. Yesterday, she told Jude Daddy’s in the clouds. He watches them when they sleep.”
I can’t help it, my eyes well up. Swallowing, I push past it.
“And Jude?”
“He doesn’t seem to remember much anymore, so I’m grateful. The sounds, the fear, it’s not stuck in his soul the way it is in theirs. He’s resilient. He laughs with his whole body.” I glance toward the living room at my precious boy, where his trains click together on the rug. “He talks to Cooper like he’s here. Tells him about his day. About cereal flavors. His favorite truck. I don’t correct him. I never will.”
God, how I love him. He’s exactly like his dad with his tousled dark curls, legs always in motion. He wears his joy in the bounce of his steps and the peanut butter on his shirt.
“I’m not trying to erase their grief,” I add. “I’m trying to help them carry it so it doesn’t break them. I want to give them tools I didn’t have.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You are.”
“I’m trying.” I squeeze back. “We talk about him all the time. I don’t pretend he didn’t exist. We say his name. Look at his pictures.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
