Chapter 4: Goodbye, My Children

Natalie and Caleb stood at my side, sobbing so hard they could barely speak, calling out, "Mom."

Their voices, hoarse and broken, carried all the weight of lost time. I wanted to comfort them, to brush their hair back one last time, but my arms were leaden, my chest tight with memories and regret.

I had promised them I’d live to see my own grandchildren, but in the end, I broke my word.

We’d made plans for a family trip to Lake Michigan, for Christmases crowded with little ones. I’d pictured rocking babies to sleep in the same old armchair where I’d once nursed them. Now, those dreams felt like someone else’s wish list.

I was simply too tired—so tired that after arranging their futures, I had no will left to live.

Every form filled out, every inheritance decided. I’d tried to make sure they’d be safe, shielded from the worst parts of this legacy. Maybe that was all I could do as their mother.

Natalie clutched my hand, kneeling on the hardwood floor, crying and pleading:

"Mom, please, just wait a little longer. Dad will be back soon."

Her hands were cold with fear, squeezing mine as if she could hold me here by sheer force of will. I wanted to tell her she’d be okay, that she was stronger than she knew. But the words stuck, heavy and useless, behind my teeth.

After a lifetime of pretending, everyone believed I loved David.

I’d kept the mask on so long, even my children bought the act. The lie had become its own truth.

What bad luck. I turned my head away, too weary to look at them again, thinking to myself: why am I not dead yet?

I was so tired of carrying everyone else’s heartbreak. Couldn’t I just set it down, just once?

That’s right—I didn’t even want to see David one last time.

The idea of him looming at my bedside made my skin crawl. If I could go without another performance, I’d be grateful.

But the more I longed for death, the more it eluded me. Instead, in some final burst of energy, I seemed oddly spirited.

It was as if my body, used to holding back, was staging one last rebellion—forcing me to stay, just to see this through.

Outside, hurried footsteps sounded, and someone called:

"The Chief is back!"

Even after all these years, his arrival still sent a ripple through the house—the hush before a summer thunderstorm. Staff scattered, everyone on alert.

I sighed. What cannot be avoided must come in the end.

Like tax season or the first frost, David’s presence was inevitable—sometimes harsh, always inescapable.

The door opened. That man, covered in snow, strode toward me.

He brought the chill in with him, the scent of winter and cologne heavy in the air. His coat was dusted with flakes, his hair flecked with gray.

Twenty years had passed; David was old now. The bright young man from Maple Heights now had gray at his temples.

His eyes had dulled, his posture slouched—power replaced by weariness. The town’s golden boy, faded around the edges.

The oppressive power he once exuded was gone—now, even the staff barely dared to breathe too loudly.

Even the house seemed to hold its breath when he was home, every echo softer, every footstep measured.

"How is Mrs. Whitaker?" he asked.

His voice was rough, impatience just barely concealed—like he expected the worst and wouldn’t be surprised.

The doctor stood by the bed, trembling, and stammered:

"She’s given up the will to live. Her pulse is as faint as a dying lamp."

The poor man looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—his white coat wrinkled, glasses slipping down his nose. He avoided David’s eyes, afraid to deliver bad news to the Chief.

David’s face was grim; he gritted his teeth and muttered "good" several times in succession.

Each word clipped, his jaw clenched like he was biting down on a secret. I wondered what he was really thinking, but maybe I didn’t want to know.

He turned and swept the coffee mugs from the nightstand, his voice low:

"Everyone out."

Ceramic shattered on the floor, coffee splattering like old blood. The staff scurried away, boots squeaking on the hardwood, the faded runner rug bunching under their hurried steps.

The others withdrew, leaving only the two of us in the room.

There was a silence that pressed in—a silence so thick I could almost hear my own heart stutter.

He took my hand.

His grip was tight, almost desperate. I could feel the tremor in his fingers, the faintest hesitation beneath his usual command.

"Emily, do you resent me?"

My throat tightened. For a second, I wanted to scream, to spit the truth in his face. But all I managed was a brittle, practiced smile.

I could barely speak, but managed to reply, with effort:

"I don’t."

My voice was brittle, thin as tissue. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him—just stared at the crack in the ceiling, willing this to be over.

David smiled, a little sadly.

His eyes crinkled, a tired shadow of the old charm he once wielded like a weapon. He looked almost human in that moment—almost.

"Even now, you’re still comforting me."

He let out a shaky laugh, almost a sob, and squeezed my hand tighter, as if that could erase twenty years of distance.

Truly, lying had become second nature.

I’d gotten so good at it, I sometimes believed my own lines.

I was about to die, yet still didn’t dare to speak the truth.

Even now, on the edge of oblivion, the habit held—one last secret, locked up tight.