Molly bites her lip, forcing back the tears I know she’s fighting.
Gemma’s brows wrinkle. “Something’s wrong with Momma?” she asks, her voice quivering.
I feel more helpless in this moment than I ever have in my entire life. This is my family. It’s my job to protect them from anything that could harm them, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do.
With her free hand, Molly grabs one of Gemma’s. “Yes, baby, there is.”
Hearing the tremble in Molly’s voice and knowing she’s barely holding on, I squeeze her hand, silently telling her I’ll explain everything to the kids.
“Do you guys remember when Momma fell at Gammy’s house?” Gray and Gemma look at me. “We went to see Dr. Becker to find out why she did.” I swallow past the boulder in my throat, determined to get through this and not make Molly do it. “Dr. Becker did some tests.”
“Did they have to get Momma’s blood like they did me and Gray the other day?”
“Yes.”
Gemma looks at her mother. “Did it hurt?”
“No, Gemma. It didn’t hurt.”
Gemma frowns, looking down at the spot where the nurse drew her blood. Her finger rubs against the area. “It hurt me.”
“I know, baby.” Molly runs her fingers through Gemma’s hair. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”
“What did the doctor say?” Gray asks, still looking at me.
I take a moment to answer, looking for the best way to tell them in a way they’ll understand.
“He said that Momma is sick.”
“What kind of sick?” he asks.
Gemma looks at Molly, her eyes roaming over her face in concentration. “Momma doesn’t look sick,” she says after a moment.
“The kind of illness she has is making the insides of her sick.”
“Well, we can make her soup in bed, and she’ll get better like you did that one time, right?”
A couple of years ago, I came down with a stomach bug that had me in bed for two days. I’d give anything for this to be something similar.
“What Momma has won’t get better with soup, Gemma,” I tell her gently.
Gray, whose expression is becoming more grim by the minute, asks, “What kind of illness does Mom have? What’s going to happen to her? Is she gonna die?”
“Gray—” Molly starts but stops when it comes out a sob.
He doesn’t look at his mother but keeps looking at me, his eyes imploring. Gemma, hearing the word die, starts crying. Letting go of my hand, Molly pulls her into her lap.
I grip Gray’s shoulder. “What Mom has is a disease that’s in her brain. It makes parts of her body not work right. Those parts will stop working eventually.”
“Is Mom going to die?” he asks again.
My heart fucking shatters into a million pieces when the first tear slides down his cheek. The last thing I want to do is give him hope when there is none, but fuck if this isn’t hard. Gray’s only thirteen years old. How in the hell do I tell a thirteen-year-old his mother is going to die? And it could be less than two years when it happens.
Molly and I discussed only telling the kids she was sick and leaving out the part where she’ll die from her illness. We struggled with what we felt was the right decision. Is there even a right decision? No matter what choice we made, the kids would be hurt. It’s either tell them the truth and have them hurt when they heard the news. Or only tell them she’s sick and leave out the death part. The latter will give them false hope, thinking their mother will get better.
In the end, we felt it was better to prepare them, so it wasn’t sprung on them all of a sudden.
I tighten my hand around Gray’s shoulder. “Yes,” I answer hoarsely.
His face crumbles, and I yank him forward. His face plants against my chest, and it only takes seconds for the material to be soaked with his tears. I glance up and meet Molly’s eyes, her own cheeks wet as she consoles our daughter.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I cry along with my family.
Exhaustion has my movements sluggish as I trudge toward our bedroom. Today has been one of the most emotionally draining days I’ve ever had to face, and I know there’s going to be many more like this one.
It took an hour for Molly and me to calm the kids down enough to explain a bit more about what we’ll all be facing over the next two years. Since we don’t know how much time Molly has left, we felt it better to not give the kids a timeline. We just told them their Mom would eventually go to heaven because of this disease.
Molly held our kids tightly, each of her arms enfolding them so close to her body, she looked like she’d never let them go. The kids did the same with her.
I ordered a pizza for dinner because neither of us felt up to cooking. We sat in the living room, the kids huddled up against Molly’s side, with me on the other side of Gemma, and we ate as we watched a movie. We picked a comedy we knew the kids would like, but none of us laughed during the funny parts.
After the kids showered, Molly and I spent time in each of the kid’s room. Gemma wanted to sleep with Gray, needing her big brother close to her side, and we allowed it. They were both asleep within minutes, but we stayed an extra twenty, just to watch over them.
Molly went to our room to shower while I locked up the house. I’m heading to our room to join her. I find her sitting on our bed with a box beside her, her head bent as she looks at something on her lap. The only light on in the room is the bedside lamp on her nightstand, so I don’t see what she’s looking at until I approach. It’s Gemma’s baby book. Gray’s is on the nightstand; I’m sure waiting on Molly to look through next.
I put the box on the floor and sit beside her.
“I was so sure she was going to have black hair like you,” Molly says, lovingly running her finger over Gemma’s first baby picture. It’s of Molly holding our daughter right after she gave birth. She’s wrapped in a white blanket with pink stripes. It was before she was given her bath, so she’s still got white stuff on her face. Nancy took the picture without us realizing it. The look on Molly’s face as she gazed down at our daughter is breathtaking.
“I’m glad she didn’t. I would have loved her with any color hair, or no hair at all, but I’m glad she took after you. She’s my little mini-Molly.”
She laughs, but it’s strained.
“And I’m glad Gray took after you. Even down to his gray eyes.”
I run my finger over the tiny bracelet taped next to the picture. “That day was so terrifying.” I shudder when I recall all of the blood Molly lost on the way to the hospital and the worry that accompanied it. “I thought I was going to lose one or both of you. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Until now. One of my worst fears has always been Molly or one of our children being taken away from me. Now that fear has become a reality, one I’m not sure I’ll survive.
“It certainly was a frightening experience.” She lifts her head and smiles. “But we both made it.”
She flips through the next several pages, which mark several milestones. We silently read each one; our minds conjuring up each memory.
I glance down at the box at our feet, then bend over and grab something from inside it. I finger the faded paint of a purple and yellow rose.