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Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Promise
The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and dying flowers. Tom Nichols sat in the vinyl chair beside his wife's bed, her hand small and cool in his calloused palm. The monitors beeped their steady rhythm, though he'd stopped hearing them days ago. They'd become part of the room itself, like the hum of fluorescent lights or the distant shuffle of nurses' feet in the hallway.
Michelle's eyes were closed, but she wasn't sleeping. He could tell by the way her fingers occasionally tightened around his, a pressure so faint he might have imagined it.
"Tom." Her voice was barely there, a whisper scraped from somewhere deep.
"I'm here." He leaned closer, his back protesting after so many hours in that chair. "I'm right here, Shell."
"The kids."
"They're coming. Greg's flight lands at four, and Annie's driving up from the city. They'll be here tonight."
She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible against the pillow. "No. After."
Tom felt something cold settle in his chest. They hadn't talked about after. They'd talked about treatments and percentages and clinical trials. They'd talked about good days and bad days and what the doctors said. But they hadn't talked about after.
"Shell—"
"Promise me." Her eyes opened then, and despite everything—the weight she'd lost, the gray pallor of her skin, the way the disease had hollowed her out—her eyes were still Michelle's eyes. Brown and warm and fierce. "Promise me you'll hold them together."
"We're going to fight this. That new treatment—"
"Tom." She said his name the way she'd said it for thirty-two years. Patient. Loving. Brooking no nonsense. "Promise me."
He brought her hand to his lips. Kissed the thin skin over her knuckles. Tasted salt and tried not to think about how light she felt, how insubstantial, like she was already leaving.
"I promise," he said. "I'll keep them together. I'll take care of everything."
Michelle smiled then, and for just a moment she looked like the girl he'd married in the backyard of her parents' house, the one who'd laughed when it started raining during their vows and said it was good luck.
"I know you will," she said. "You always do."
She was gone three days later, with both kids holding her hands and Tom standing at the foot of the bed because he couldn't bring himself to sit down, couldn't make himself that small. He stood there like he was waiting for something—instructions, maybe, or permission—but nothing came. Just the long tone of the monitor and his daughter's sobbing and his son saying "Mom" over and over, like the word might bring her back.
Tom didn't cry. Not then. He had things to do. He had to call the funeral home, had to talk to the nurses about paperwork, had to be strong for the kids. Michelle had asked him to hold them together, and he would. He would.
He made it all the way to the parking garage before his legs gave out. He sat on the concrete beside his truck, back against the tire, and he wept. Great heaving sobs that echoed off the low ceiling and came back to him like mockery. He wept until his chest ached and his throat was raw and there was nothing left.
Then he wiped his face with his sleeve, got in his truck, and drove home to start making arrangements.
That was what you did. You kept moving. You took care of things. You held it together.
For about three months, he did exactly that.
