I look at her, and wonder how long it’ll be before she begins to understand the truth.
Her mother is never coming home. Not properly. Whether it’s the coma that takes her, or the complications that follow, or another carefully orchestrated mistake waiting further down the line, the outcome will be the same.
Amerie is going away. I’ll see to it.
But Willow doesn’t know that. She’s still soft and innocent.
I crouch down to her level with a gentle expression. “We’re going to pick Mummy some flowers. Lovely ones. Daffodils and forget-me-nots. And when she sees them, she’ll feel much better.”
Willow stares at me for a moment, then slowly nods. She’s still sniffling, so small and pitiful, like a wet kitten left out in the cold. I reach for her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
“That’s a good girl,” I say, rising to my feet.
Emmett has begun to stir in the stroller, rustling under his blanket with the twitchy, unsettled movements of a baby who knows something’s off but can’t make sense of it. I guide the stroller gently toward the seating area, one hand on the handle, the other still holding Willow’s.
“Come along now. Sit down here with your brother,” I say, motioning to the chairs with the faded upholstery and gum pressed into the corners. “We’ll see Mummy soon.”
Willow climbs up into the seat with a sigh and curls her knees against her chest. I settle the stroller beside her and check on Emmett, who’s blinking blearily, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
I straighten the blanket over his legs and adjust the hood of the stroller.
It won’t be long until Amerie’s gone, and once she is, the children won’t need to ask anyone where their mummy is.
They’ll already have a new one.
Me.
Declan arrives at A&E in pieces. There’s no attempt at composure, no performative calm for the children’s sake. Just the full, raw weight of a man unraveled. His eyes are bloodshot, his tie hanging loose at the collar like he’s forgotten how to dress himself, or simply couldn’t bear the pressure at his throat a moment longer.
His breathing is erratic, each inhale like he’s trying to catch something that keeps slipping away. He moves with the franticaimlessness of a wounded animal, pacing across the waiting area, stopping nurses mid-step, demanding to see his wife with a voice that cracks each time he raises it.
It’s all rather theatrical.
And strangely romantic, in that fevered, helpless sort of way that makes something in me ache. There’s a tenderness to his panic, a loyalty sharpened by urgency. I can’t help but imagine what it might feel like to be the woman who elicits that kind of reaction from him.
The woman he falls to pieces over.
In time, I will be.
Soon, those same wild, broken-eyed expressions will be for me.
But I play my role for now. The part of the caring, emotionally supportive nanny. The dependable fixture in their domestic backdrop. As he approaches me and the littlies, I rise from my seat with a gentle expression drawn across my face, the picture of quiet concern. I tilt my head to the side, offering the kind of sympathy that invites tears.
I’m ready to be the shoulder he cries on.
“I’m so sorry, Declan,” I murmur softly. “I don’t know what went wrong.”
He doesn’t speak, not at first. His reddened eyes sweep over the children, his chest still rising and falling in those jagged, uneven breaths. I press on gently, guiding the narrative I’ve already rehearsed in my head half a dozen times on the ride over.
“She insisted on going to the station herself,” I say, sighing. My gaze drifts downward. “I tried to tell her it was too much, truly I did. She was shaky this morning, and I asked if she’d eaten properly, if she’d taken her insulin, but you know what she’s like. Always so determined to prove she’s fine. I do try to remind her, but... she can be a bit stubborn, can’t she?”
Still, no response. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his mouth slack with grief. There’s a weight hanging off him, something dragging him beneath the surface.
Willow slips down from the chair and crosses to him, her arms wrapping around his middle in a hug that’s more desperation than comfort. Her voice comes out muffled against his shirt.
“Daddy, please make sure Mommy’s okay.”
Declan’s hands hover for a moment before finally settling on Willow’s back, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. There’s a hitch in his throat when he tries to answer her, but whatever he means to say never forms.
