by J. L. Berg
The next morning, on my day off, I had driven to a sleepy neighborhood in search of something only a mother could provide—comfort. Since my mother had never been more than a disciplinarian, I’d gone to the one woman I’d always looked up to and loved since the first minute I met her so many years ago.
“Mia,” Mrs. Finnegan greeted me at her front door with an inviting smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Finnegan.”
She gave me a pointed look, and I laughed, remembering her previous request that I call her Mom.
“Sorry. Hi, Mom.”
Her smile broadened. “Better. Now, come on in. It’s hotter than blue blazes out there. I don’t think summer is going to give up quite so easily this year.”
We made small talk as I followed her into the kitchen. She pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge, and I helped by grabbing two tall glasses from the shelf, remembering where they were from my earlier visit.
“How are you doing? I feel terrible about not visiting sooner,” I said as she poured our glasses and handed one to me.
“I’m doing a little better every day. There are times when I come into the living room and expect him to be sitting in that favorite chair, yelling at the TV over some stupid football game, but for the most part, my life has adjusted as best as it can.”
I sat at the kitchen table, and she brought over some freshly made cookies.
“Clare made these and brought them over. She keeps bringing over sweets. I believe it’s her way of coping, but I think I’m going to bust out of my clothes soon!” She laughed.
“I guess we all mourn differently.”
“Yes, we do. Each of us handles loss in our own way.”
She paused, and I looked up and found her comforting green eyes.
“How did you mourn, my dear?”
I took a cleansing deep breath, knowing now why I’d come this morning. It wasn’t just for comfort. It was for healing.
“I don’t think I have,” I whispered quietly.
She nodded as if she understood or recognized the pain.
“I think it’s time you let yourself do that, sweetheart,” she said gently.
“But I don’t know how. How do you mourn the idea of something? How do you let go of a life that never happened? There are no memories, no stories. She didn’t even have a name.”
“You give your lost child a name and let me do the rest.”
That conversation had been a turning point for me. It had given me the strength and courage to do everything I’d accomplished in the last two weeks, and it had brought me to where I was now—standing at Garrett’s front door. I was ready to say good-bye to my regrets.
With a steady hand, I took a deep breath and knocked.
I heard the radio kick off, and a set of footsteps grew louder as they made their way to the door. My heart rate accelerated with every step he took, knowing what I was going to say.
The door swung open, and there he was, standing before me in dark jeans and a green T-shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. His breath caught the moment he saw me, and what looked like relief danced across his features.
“Mia.” He said my name and it sounded like a prayer as it left his lips.. “Thank God. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay away.”
He pulled me close, breathing me in, as my body was engulfed in his. His lips found my forehead, and he placed a soft kiss against my skin, silently telling me he loved me.
I was home.
No building or structure would ever feel as inviting and safe as Garrett’s warm body wrapped around mine. Homes were not built of wood or brick. They were built by the memories and love we created in them. As long as I had Garrett, I could go anywhere, do everything, and conquer any obstacle life threw at us.
“I’m so sorry it took me so long,” I said softly.
“I told you I would wait. I meant it. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to see you,” he confessed.
He pulled me inside and shut the door behind us before ushering us to his room.
“I just need to hold you,” he admitted when I raised my eyebrow at his location selection.
Hearing no complaints from me, he lay down on the plush mattress, and I settled in next to him, breathing in a sigh of contentment.
“I missed this,” I said, running my hands under the hem of his shirt to feel the tight skin of his abdomen.
He sucked in a breath as my fingers skimmed his stomach, and I smiled, knowing I could still affect him so with just a single touch.
“There’s so much I want to tell you, Garrett, so much I want to explain. When you left me that day, I thought I’d never be able to pull myself out of the ocean of guilt I’d created. How could I move forward when I was the one to blame for all our failures?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him.
“No, it’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it now. I’ve realized that there are things in life that cannot be controlled. Grief is a part of life, but it can’t become our life. I’d allowed grief to take over and rule my entire existence because I’d never allowed myself to say good-bye to our daughter. I’d held on to her, the grief and the life I’d never know. But it wasn’t really grief I was experiencing. It was regret and shame. I was blaming myself for snuffing out her existence, and by doing so, I wasn’t allowing myself to let go.”
His eyes were glassy. “And did you finally say good-bye?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
A bit of disappointment flashed across his face, so I continued quickly, “But I’m going to…today. We both are.”
His brows furrowed together in confusion as he sat up on his elbows. “I don’t understand.”
“Will you go somewhere with me?” I asked.
“I’d go anywhere with you.”
***
We held hands as we made our way down the familiar path, the sounds of our footsteps adding to the natural rhythm of the swaying trees and chirping birds. I hadn’t told him why we were here, and he hadn’t asked. He just patiently waited for me to explain.
When we turned the corner and found ourselves at his family’s plot, standing in front of his father’s newly installed headstone, he turned to me in confusion.
“Why are we here?” he asked.
“So, we can say good-bye,” I explained, pointing to the new granite marker that had been installed next to his father’s.
Garrett took a step closer, his eyes scrunching together, as he read the words. “Her name was Hope?” he whispered as he fell to his knees. His fingers lightly touched the raised lettering as if he was memorizing it by feel.
I stepped forward and knelt beside him.
“Your mother told me to give her a name. She said it would help me heal and grieve. I know you always loved the name Hope.”
“It’s beautiful,” he choked out.
We silently looked down at the memorial that marked the memory of our child.
Hope Elizabeth Finnegan
Our darling Hope. Too beautiful for Earth, but we will hold you in Heaven.
Until then…
“Why Elizabeth?” he asked, never taking his eyes off that tiny plaque.
“I wanted her to have a family name. You mother told me Elizabeth was a name that had been passed down from generation to generation.”
He nodded, swallowing hard, as he fought back heavy emotions. “It’s my sister’s middle name as well.”
“I know.”
He finally looked up at me, his eyes wet from unshed tears.
“You gave her my last name,” he whispered.
“She’s our child, Garrett. What other name would I have given her?”
Like so many times before, he bent his head toward mine and kissed my forehead as he pulled me into his arms. “Thank you for this,” he said.
“Your mother helped immensely. Without her, I think I’d still be curled up in bed, covered in old photographs, unable to forgive myself. She helped me in so many ways. S
he’s an amazing woman.”
Cupping my chin, he placed a brief, tender kiss on my lips, and I felt every emotion he was pouring into me—love, sadness, grief, but most of all, hope. We had hope for our future, our family, and our ever-growing strength. I’d named our daughter well.
He turned his head back to the bronze marker. His vivid green eyes wandered over each word, drinking them in, savoring them.
“She would have had your smile and that cute button nose,” he said with a half smile. “She would have had my eyes and my stubbornness.”
“She would have been tall like you, towering above the boys in her class, with skinny long legs meant for running while being chased by her daddy.”
His smile grew, and he looked down at the ground as if he was picturing her. I knew I was. I could see her image solidifying before me.
Our Hope.
“She’d have a voice just like yours and sing like an angel. I would have spent my evenings in quiet contentment just listening to the two of you making music together,” he said, bringing me to tears.
“There wouldn’t have been a moment of her life we wouldn’t have loved her, watching her grow, seeing her rise and fall, win and lose, as she battled her way through life. We would have loved her unconditionally and without end.” The sobs tore as each word stumbled out of my mouth.
“Someday, we will have our chance to love her,” Garrett said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to comfort me.
I didn’t know how long we sat there, but in that time, I silently poured my soul out to that little marker in the grass. As I sobbed, Garrett held me, never letting go, as I made peace with my demons. I forgave myself for the mistakes I’d made and the regrets I’d refused to let go of. I felt my heart purge, letting go of the darkness that had settled there. I felt lighter and blessedly free.
Finally, through my grieving, I said good-bye to the child I would never know and the life I would never have. I would never know the joy of giving birth to my own child. I’d never experience the exhilaration of finding out I was carrying Garrett’s child again. This was my new reality, but one thing hadn’t changed—the man by my side.
He was still next to me—holding me, loving me, and supporting me no matter what life might hold—and that made all the difference in the world.
With one final glance at Hope’s marker, I kissed my fingers and placed them next to her name.
“I love you,” I whispered. “Until then…”
Turning to Garrett, I smiled and said, “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
~Garrett~
I managed to turn the doorknob and push the front door open with my foot, balancing the bags of groceries in my arms, as I tried not to be mauled over by a very exuberant Sam. He jumped and danced at my arrival, and I bent down, jostling the bags, and gave him a quick pat on the head. The smell of something burning hit my nose, and I quickly rose to follow the smell.
“Mia? Are you burning something?” I called as I rounded the corner into our newly remodeled kitchen.
Long gone were the dated appliances and lackluster cabinets. Now, the kitchen was larger, bright, and functional. We’d spent months picking out new tiles for the backsplash, installing upgraded appliances, and laying down new flooring. It had been many days and nights of hard work, but it was our dream, and it was exactly what we had needed in our journey of healing.
Smoke billowed out of the oven as Mia halfheartedly tried to wave it away with a towel.
“No, it’s already burned. It’s dead. I killed it,” she answered in defeat.
Chuckling softly, I placed the bags down on the counter and turned toward her, pulling her apron-clad body into my arms. She looked adorable in her frilly pink apron, especially since I knew she couldn’t cook worth shit.
“Why didn’t you wait until I got home?” I asked, feeling her huff in frustration.
“Because I wanted to help with the cooking. It’s our housewarming party—which I still don’t quite understand by the way. You’ve been living here for three months. Why are we all of a sudden having everyone over for a party?”
I couldn’t help but grin. It was down right adorable that the thought of having my entire family over still definitely made her palms sweat. They’d all welcomed her into the family with open arms, but she would still get nervous every time Clare or my mother came over, worrying that she’d mess up and look bad. I didn’t know how to explain to her that they were in love with her just as much as I was.
Mia sighed, looking at her baking catastrophe on top of the oven, as she bit into her top lip with worry. I wished I had spared her the pain and just explained why it was necessary to have a housewarming party three months after she’d made me the happiest man alive when she asked me to move in with her. She’d handed me a key the day we visited Hope’s memorial for the first time, but I couldn’t tell her the reason, not yet.
“What’s this?” I asked.
I took the shiny keychain with a single key dangling on it from her outstretched hand as we wandered back down the winding pathway to the car. I stopped, turning it over it my hand, as my fingers ran over its satiny finish. On one side, our initials were engraved, intertwining together like long-lost lovers, and on the other side were two single words that stole the very air from my lungs—Welcome Home.
I’d cleared out my apartment the following day, not wanting to waste another minute of my life in the cramped, lifeless hellhole. Mia was my life, and the first time I’d walked into the front door of our house, knowing I was truly coming home, I’d finally found happiness.
We’d spent the last three months living in this house and making it our home—together. Remodeling the kitchen had just been the beginning. We’d finished painting, picked out every piece of furniture together, and spent hours hanging old and new photos on the walls. The ultrasound Mia couldn’t seem to let go of was now hanging on our wall in its own frame as a reminder of the little girl who would be waiting for us when our time on this earth was done. We might be moving forward, but it didn’t mean we had to forget our past.
In the last three months, we’d healed old wounds and made new memories. With the renovations almost completed, we’d managed to host Thanksgiving, and everything had gone off without a hitch, mostly because I’d kept Mia as far away from the food preparation as possible. When Christmas morning came, I’d surprised her with breakfast in bed, and we’d opened presents under our own tree, celebrating our very first holiday together in our new life.
Holding her in my arms now, I couldn’t help but grin like an idiot as I remembered her absolute joy that morning. We’d already come so far. I reached down and patted the pocket of my jeans for the hundredth time that day.
Yep, still there.
I looked up, and Mia was staring at me as if waiting for an answer.
Did she ask me a question? Oh right, the party.
“What? Oh, well, we just finished remodeling the kitchen, and all of the furniture is in here finally. It’s time to invite everyone over and have a housewarming party. You know, formally,” I answered quickly, hoping she’d let it go and not ask any more questions.
She gave me a longer than normal stare, her eyes searching my face, and I tried to play innocent. It must have worked because she turned toward the counter and began pulling out some of the things she’d sent me to the store to retrieve.
“Okay, but when they all die because of food poisoning, I’m telling the cops it was your fault.”
“Deal.” I laughed. “I’ll gladly go to the slammer for you, baby.”
“You better.”
I tossed the charred black mounds that resembled rolls from the cookie sheet into the trash and set the sheet in the sink to soak. Pulling out fresh ingredients, I popped open another can of rolls and placed them on a clean cookie sheet.
How someone could royally screw up something as simple as rolls was beyond me, but she’d managed to succeed every time she attempted. It was a good thing I
didn’t mind being in the kitchen. I had a feeling I’d be the head chef in our little family for the foreseeable future.
“Why don’t you head upstairs and get ready?” I suggested, placing the new batch of rolls in the oven.
I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she gave herself an appraising look. She already looked presentable in nice jeans and a warm fuzzy sweater, but I knew she’d kill me if I let her stay in that outfit for what I had planned.
“I’ll take care of the rest of this,” I said encouragingly. “Just go upstairs and relax for a while. Why don’t you put on that pretty purple dress you bought the other day?”
Her eyes perked up, and she grinned. She’d been waiting for an excuse to wear that dress ever since she brought it home. She had even contemplated returning it. As soon as I had seen it, I knew it was perfect for tonight.
She raced upstairs, and seconds later, I heard the familiar sound of singing as she moved around upstairs. I loved the sound of her singing. She sang all the time now. I hadn’t really noticed it, but when she had first come back into town, I’d never heard her hum or sing at all. It was something she used to do as if it were second nature. I thought, along with so many other things, it had been swallowed up in her grief and misery.
She’d told me late one night, about a month after I’d moved in, that singing in that club had been the first time she’d heard her own voice in years. I wished I could say that our grief and pain were gone and sealed up in that grave marker my mother had installed for Hope, but wounds couldn’t heal that easily, and it’d taken months of counseling and time together to get to this point.
Deep scars couldn’t be healed instantaneously. They took time to heal properly, and this time around, we knew we couldn’t risk doing anything half-assed. Mia had eight years of posttraumatic stress and depression to sort through, and even though I’d forgiven her for everything, I still had years of emptiness to work through.
