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EMILY
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life can be a real bitch.
It’s not like I was disillusioned before everything fell apart. Having been raised by a single mom, I knew what struggle looked like. I had seen it etched on her face, day in and day out.
Even as the years passed and the struggles lessened, the hard times had done their job, marring her beautiful porcelain skin with permanent stress lines.
She was an amazing mother, one who constantly went without so I wouldn’t have to. Name brand clothes, expensive summer camps, private school tuition—albeit, half off since they employed her—her unconditional love meant that I was never exposed to the harshness of our reality.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager, when I came home before curfew one night and found her crying on the kitchen floor, that I realized how hard it all must have been for her. She had gotten the news that my father—who had left her six years prior and hadn’t looked back—was getting remarried.
That was the first time I saw my mother cry. The first time she had allowed her walls to lower and for me to see her vulnerable. I held her tightly, wishing that my love for her could somehow heal her broken pieces but knowing they weren’t enough.
It was also my first glance into how shitty life could be. How good people who deserved the world were left alone and heartbroken, bawling their eyes out on the kitchen floor.
Five years later, I sat on that very kitchen floor, in the very same spot, just hours after putting her into the ground. That time, Chase’s strong arms were wrapped around me, giving me the strength I needed to mend my broken pieces.
It was a defining moment in our relationship. Although we had grown up together, we had never sat so intimately before, and now that I was all alone in life, I needed his love more than ever.
Chase is stable and responsible, and through every trial and tribulation life has thrown my way since, he’s been there.
It was Chase who built me up to believe I was going to be the best mom in the world when I found out I was pregnant with Willow and terrified of the future.
It was Chase who held my hand in the delivery room, telling me what a great job I was doing when I thought I couldn’t possibly push any longer.
It was Chase who sat beside me in the oncologist’s office when Willow was five years old and I was diagnosed—for the first time—with Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
I spent every minute of the past five years believing things would be okay. I’m young. I’m a mother. I had to get better. In between surgeries and treatments, I lived my life the best I could.
I even went into remission for three years, and there were days where I hadn’t thought about the cancer at all. I just enjoyed my time with Chase and Willow. Sweet, beautiful, wonderful Willow—who made every day worth living.
Now, even with all the good I’ve experienced, life feels really fucking unfair. Now, the cancer is back. And this time, I can’t trick myself into believing things will be okay. Time is running out, and I’m living out my days knowing that any one of them could be my last.
Unfortunately, Chase had to go and get another woman knocked up.
A woman who’s been sleeping in the hotel room I’ve spent the past hour sitting in front of and who, just twelve hours prior, hadn’t even known I existed.
I wrap myself tighter in my raggedy afghan, trying to stave off the shivers running down my spine. My ass is numb from the hard cement, and I’m so cold that I can feel it deep in my bones.
Still, I sit, my back pressed up against the hard door, desperately trying to come to terms with the host of emotions running through me. I’m pissed. It’s not the first time Chase has slept with someone since we’ve been married, but it’s the first time someone has followed him home.
Chase is my husband, my family.
Here I am, trying to come to terms with the fact that these are my final days, and now I’ll be sharing them with another woman, and Willow will be sharing her life with his child. That’s a hard pill to swallow, but I’ve gotten pretty good at swallowing pills over the years.
I look down at the cell phone in my lap: 5:42 a.m.
Chase will be waking up soon. He’s going to be pissed that I’ve left the house, let alone bed, in the middle of the night, and I at least need something to show for it.
I sigh, adjusting the blanket so I can raise my rickety body off the ground. I’m stiff from sitting there for so long. I slowly fold the afghan, buying myself more time to fix my shaky breath. I don’t want to meet Addison with a wobble in my voice.
I want her to know me and what I mean to Chase. I want her to know that even though he’s the father of both our children, we aren’t the same, and Chase’s feelings for us will never be the same.
Taking a deep breath and counting to three, I reach my hand up and knock on the hotel door.
