I close my hand into a fist. It feels light without the weight of my rings, and I stare down at the white band left on my bare finger. The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.
I hate my hand without his ring.
I hate my life without his love.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I put my head down onto the steering wheel . . . and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to cry.
I throw the last pair of shoes into my suitcase. I leave tomorrow for the conference. “I think that’s it.”
“Did you get your toothbrush?” Patrick asks as he lies on his stomach on my bed, beside my suitcase. My youngest child is also my wisest. He never forgets a thing. “Not yet. I still have to use it. I’ll pack it in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“So Grandma will be here when you get home from school,” I remind him.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he says with an eye roll. “And I have to call you the moment Harry’s naughty or if Fletcher gets short tempered.” He sighs as he recites my orders.
“Yes, that’s right.” Little do his brothers know, but Patrick is also my tattletale. I know what his brothers have done before they even finish doing it.
I have
three sons. Fletcher is seventeen and has taken on the unofficial job as my personal bodyguard. Harry is thirteen, and I swear to God he’s either going to end up a Nobel Prize–winning genius or in jail. He is the most mischievous human being I know, always getting into some kind of trouble—mostly at school.
And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not. He’s also my biggest worry. He was only four when his father died, and he missed out the most.
He doesn’t even remember his dad.
He has photos of him strewed all over his room. He hero-worships him. I mean, we all do. But Patrick’s obsession is almost over the top. He asks me to tell him a story about his father at least twice a day. He smiles and listens intently as I relay past events and tell him stories about Wade. He knows all of Wade’s favorite meals at restaurants and then always wants to order the same. He sleeps in one of his dad’s old T-shirts. I do this too, but I would never let on that I do.
To be honest, I kind of dread story time. We all laugh and make jokes over the memory. Then the children go to bed and fall into a blissful slumber, and my mind goes over the scene time after time.
Wishing we could do it all over again.
Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell.
Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.
“Okay, read out my list,” I continue.
“Bus . . .” Patrick frowns as he reads. “Bus-in-ess.”
“Business clothes.”
“Yes.” He smiles proudly that he nearly got it.
I mess up his dark hair that is curling up at the ends. “Check.”
He ticks the word. “Cas . . .” He frowns, as if stuck.
“Casual clothes?” I ask.
He nods.
“Check.”