the more grateful I am. But it also gets harder and harder each day. I’d die a thousand gruesome deaths if it meant Molly could be healthy again and live a long life. Not knowing what day will be her last is what makes this so painful.
Would it be better if we knew so we could prepare?
Or would it be worse?
I don’t know. I only know the situation we’re in is excruciating. Like a blade sinking slowly into your chest, and you know any minute, it’ll puncture your heart and rip your life force away.
Nevertheless, I’ll take every single torturous minute I’ve got with Molly, even if it is killing me bit by bit.
My showers have become increasingly longer, because I sit right here on this floor and pour my sorrow out into the drain. Then I have to sit even longer to make sure my face doesn’t give away my grief when I leave the bathroom.
Twenty-five minutes after I walked into the bathroom, I leave the room with a towel wrapped around my waist. My eyes immediately move to Molly, who’s on her side with one of her old journals propped up on my pillow in front of her.
She’s been sleeping more and more lately. Her body is weak and tired. Some days she can barely keep her eyes open for most of the day. On her good days, I’ll carry her out to the living room or one of the loungers on the patio out back, but those days are becoming less frequent. Our bedroom, specifically our bed, has become her new living space. If it were up to me, I’d live right beside her, curled up against her body and simply listen to her breathe.
But I can’t. The kids need me. They come in here and visit her a lot, but it’s not healthy to be in here constantly. Molly enjoys their company, but insists they still do kid things.
My chest feels heavy as I watch a slow smile spread across her face as she continues to read. Her smiles are limited and will be ripped from me soon, so I soak up every one she gives.
Walking to the bed, I lie down to face her, taking care I don’t knock her journal over.
“What are you smiling about?” I ask, reaching out to finger some of her hair that’s hanging over her shoulder.
Her tired eyes meet mine and her smile turns endearing. Her voice is low and raspy when she speaks. “I’mmm at a rrreally goood part in our stooory. I caught yooou singinnng and dancccing with Gray annnd Gemma.”
I chuckle, my mind wandering back to when Gray was a toddler and Gemma was a baby. I went through a phase where I would sing and dance with them in the kitchen while I made us all breakfast.
I grin cockily. “My dancing skills weren’t near as bad as my singing skills.”
“Wwwouldnn’t matterr if it werrre. I feeell in looove with you againnn inn that mommment.”
Slipping her journal closed, I put it behind me on the bed and scoot closer to her. I slide an arm under her neck and one around her waist then pull her closer. The muscles in her body have become so weak, she can barely move on her own now.
With her head resting on my chest and one of my arms tucked around her, I grab a thick lock of her hair and bring it to my nose, inhaling deep.
“Ooonce I’mmm gone, I waaant you tooo read my jjjournalsss,” she rasps out quietly.
I look down at the top of her head. “Those are your private thoughts, Molly. I can’t read those.”
Her nails dig into my stomach. “I waaant you tooo. I wanttt you to see how much I looved my lifffe with you. Hooow much I cherrrished everyyy minute of ittt.”
I close my eyes and suck in a quiet breath. When I open them again, I stare up at the ceiling. “Okay.”
“Annnd I waaant you to reeead to the kidsss the onesss they’lll enjoy.”
I grit my teeth and take a moment to answer. When I do, my voice is raw. “Yeah, baby, I will.”
We lie in silence for several long moments.
“I’mmm almossst done with Clarra’ss journals. Wheeen I’m finissshed, I want too find herrr and Charrrles’ family.”
“You want to give them the journals?”
“Nooo.” She pauses a moment. “I shooould give them to theeem and mayybe I’m being selllfish, buut those jourrrnals are minne nooow. I truuuly believe theeey were in our atttic becaussse