So Much More - Kim Holden Page 0,43

exit, Miranda is standing twenty feet behind me with her arms crossed. It feels like she’s hovering over me. I pull my kids aside and explain to them that they’re going to have to go live with their mother for a while. I break it to them as gently as I can and try to put a positive spin on it despite the words burning like acid on their way out. It kills me to watch their reactions. Kai goes stone-faced. Unblinking. He’s shut down and crawled into his cave where he mulls over things that kids his age shouldn’t have to contemplate. Internalizing them until they’re a cancer on his soul. Rory pins Miranda with a stare that’s contempt. He’s already blaming her with his eyes for an unwelcome future and then he yells, “No!” That’s all he says. And my little girl, she cries. She cries like I’ve never seen her cry.

And my heart shatters for the second time today. It’s blown apart into so many pieces, the shrapnel spread so far and wide, I know what remains will never fit back together again. Puzzles don’t work when you only have half of the pieces. Same goes for hearts.

I hug all three of them at once because I can’t fathom excluding any of them while I hug their sibling alone. I hug them. I kiss them. I tell them all I love them more than anything else in the world, and that’s when my eyes fill up. I’m trying with everything in me to hold back the tears because they’re already scared and sad, and I don’t want to stir up any more heavy emotion in them. But I can’t help it, I feel like Miranda took an ax to the top of my head and split me in two. You would think everything inside me would feel dead, but it’s the opposite. Everything inside me is exposed nerves, all raw, tingling, unmistakable pain and agony. It’s emotional torture.

Her words are like salt poured in an open wound. “Come, children. We need to get to the airport. We have a flight to catch.”

I sniff back the tears and wipe my eyes before I turn to look at her. “Follow me to my house so I can pack their things.”

She shakes her head. It’s hard; I swear there’s no softness in this woman. “We don’t have time. I’ll buy them everything they need when we get home.”

Kira’s face loses all color. I’ve seen joy vanish temporarily from someone’s eyes when a happy moment passes, but I’ve never seen it flushed entirely out of someone before. Kira just lost her innocent joy. It’s gone, snatched away carelessly and thoughtlessly. “I need Pickles.” Trepidation is rising in her voice. “I can’t leave without Pickles.”

Miranda looks at me in confusion. She didn’t just see our daughter lose her innocence. She’s annoyed that her schedule’s being delayed. I explain, “She needs her stuffed cat. She can’t fall asleep without it, Miranda.”

Miranda shakes her head impatiently again. “We don’t have time to get it, Kira.” She says Kira’s name but she’s looking, she’s talking, to me. “We’ll get you another tomorrow.”

Kira screeches in horror, “I don’t want another one! I want Pickles!”

I struggle to kneel down on the ground, afraid I’ll never get up again, take Kira’s tiny hand in mine and kiss the back of it before I rub it to console her. “I’ll mail Pickles to you, darlin’. I’ll make sure you have her first thing in the morning. I promise.”

The tears continue to stream, but she quiets for several seconds as she thinks over my solution. “Okay, Daddy.”

I kiss her hand one more time and echo, “Okay.”

And then I hug my kids again. I kiss my kids again. I tell them I love them again, and then I tell them, “I’m sorry. So much more than sorry.” And I mean it with everything I am.

And then I watch them walk away with their mother.

And I feel myself die inside.

Everything wilts. Emotions, organs, thoughts, memories, hope…it all wilts. Like a leaf wilts due to lack of water or sunlight, they all turn in upon themselves until the edges are curled grotesquely and shriveled into something unrecognizable.

I walk home, partially because I fear driving would put others in danger—I’m enraged—and partially because I want to punish myself. I want my body to be forced into the action it rebels against. I want my muscles to struggle and my legs to protest. I want