It was almost midnight when he found Jane in the library. He hadn’t meant to. He’d just been wandering again, unable to sleep, when he saw the soft glow of the reading lamp. She was curled up in the corner of the leather couch, barefoot, a book open in her lap. She looked peaceful, like the weight of the house didn’t touch her the way it touched him.
Benjamin cleared his throat softly. Jane looked up, not startled, just calm. Couldn’t sleep either. He shook his head and stepped further into the room. For a moment, he just stood there, unsure what to do. Then he sat down across from her, not close, but not far. The silence between them felt different than the silence everywhere else in the house. It didn’t press down on him. It just existed.
“What are you reading?” he asked. She held up the book. “Beloved by Tony Morrison.” “Heavy reading for bedtime,” he said. Heavy thoughts need heavy books, she replied simply. Benjamin almost smiled. Almost. They sat in the quiet for a while. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to thank her for what she’d done.
Didn’t know how to ask her to keep doing it without sounding desperate. Finally, he spoke. They laughed yesterday. Really laughed. I haven’t heard that sound since. He couldn’t finish. Since Amanda, Jane said softly. Hearing his wife’s name out loud felt like a punch to the chest.
Most people avoided saying it, like saying her name would break him. But Jane didn’t look away. They talk about her, Jane said. The boys, they tell me stories. Benjamin’s throat tightened. What do they say? That she smelled like flowers. That she sang off key in the car. That she let them eat dessert first on Tuesdays. Tears burned behind his eyes. Those were details he’d forgotten.
small things that used to make him laugh, things that felt lost forever until now. “Thank you,” he whispered for remembering her through them. Jane closed her book and stood. “Good night, Benjamin.” She left the room quietly, and he sat there alone, feeling less empty than he had in months. Maybe she wasn’t just helping his sons heal. Maybe she was helping him, too. 3 weeks passed.
Benjamin found himself looking for reasons to be home. He’d finish calls early, skip dinners with investors, make excuses to his assistant about why he couldn’t stay late. The truth was simple. His house didn’t feel like a tomb anymore. Tonight, he came home around 8. The boys were already asleep.
He could hear the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. Everything felt normal, calm. Then he heard it. Crying, soft, broken. The kind of crying someone does when they think no one’s listening. Benjamin’s chest tightened. He moved quietly toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Jane sat alone at the table, her back to him. Her shoulders shook.
In her hands, she held something small, a silver locket open, catching the light. She didn’t hear him. She was too lost in whatever pain had her by the throat. Benjamin didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as this woman, who’d been so strong, so steady for his sons, fell apart in his kitchen. Finally, she sensed him. Her head turned. When she saw him standing there, her eyes went wide. She wiped her face quickly, trying to pull herself together.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll just, “Who’s in the locket?” Benjamin asked quietly. Jane froze, her fingers tightened around the silver chain. For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Then, so softly, he almost didn’t hear it. she whispered. Her name was Hope. Benjamin stepped into the kitchen and sat down across from her. Was Jane’s face crumpled.
Fresh tears spilled over. She died 2 years ago. Leukemia. She was 3 years old. The words hung in the air like smoke. Benjamin felt something crack open inside his chest. Jane, she was my daughter, Jane continued, her voice shaking. My baby girl. We fought for a year.
hospitals, treatments, watching her get sicker, watching her lose her hair, watching her stop being a little girl and become someone I didn’t recognize. Her hands trembled as she opened the locket wider, showing him the tiny photo inside. A little girl with gap teeth and bright eyes holding a dandelion. “My husband blamed me,” Jane said. S said I should have noticed the symptoms sooner. Should have pushed the doctors harder.
should have done something, anything to save her. The marriage didn’t survive it. He took everything in the divorce. All her photos, her toys, her clothes. This locket is all I have left. Benjamin’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak. I became a nanny because Jane’s voice broke completely. Because I don’t know how to live in a world without children’s laughter. It’s the only thing that makes the quiet bearable.
When I heard about your boys, about what they’d lost, I thought maybe maybe I could help them in ways I couldn’t help my own daughter. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t professional. I know I shouldn’t.
You’re not just helping them heal, Benjamin interrupted, his own voice rough. You’re healing yourself, Jane shook her head. I don’t think I’ll ever heal. Maybe not, Benjamin said. But loving my sons, it’s keeping you alive. The same way you’re keeping them alive. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were cold, trembling.
They sat like that for a long time. Two people drowning in grief, holding on to each other in the dark. Does it get easier? Jane whispered. The missing? Benjamin thought about Amanda. About the hole she’d left. About how every morning he still reached for her side of the bed and found it empty. No, he said honestly. But the missing becomes different.
It becomes part of you, a presence instead of an absence. Jane nodded, tears still falling. She closed the locket slowly, pressed it against her heart. Thank you, she whispered, for not looking away. Thank you, Benjamin said, for showing up. And in that moment, something shifted between them. They weren’t employer and employee anymore. They were two broken people who’d found each other in the ruins.
Maybe that’s what Grace looked like. Mother’s Day came like a shadow Benjamin had been trying to outrun. He woke up that morning with his chest already tight. Last year, Amanda had been alive. The boys had made her cards with crayon scribbles and sticky handprints.
She’d cried happy tears and stuck them on the fridge where they stayed for months. This year, the fridge was empty. Benjamin had planned to take the boys to the cemetery, say a few words, come home, survive the day. That was all he needed to do, just survive it. But when he came downstairs, he heard voices in the playroom. He walked to the doorway and stopped.
Jane sat on the floor with Rick, Nick, and Mick, surrounded by construction paper, crayons, and glue sticks. They were making cards. Benjamin’s heart sank and swelled at the same time. She was helping them make something for Amanda. Of course she was. She understood what today meant. He stepped closer, watching quietly. Mick held up his drawing first.
A stick figure with dark skin and a big smile surrounded by hearts in crooked crayon letters. For Jane, you make a smile. Benjamin’s breath caught. Rick’s card said, “I love you, Jane.” With three stick figures holding her hand. Nyx was messier, but clearer woman on her hands and knees with boys on her back. They weren’t making cards for their mother. They were making them for Jane. Something twisted in Benjamin’s chest.
Not anger, something deeper, something that felt like loss and relief all tangled together. Jane looked up and saw him standing there. Her face went pale. She stood quickly, almost knocking over the glue. “I didn’t ask them to do this,” she said, her voice shaking. “I swear. I told them we should make cards for for their mother.
Benjamin finished, his voice tight. Yes, Jane’s eyes filled with tears. But they, Nick interrupted, holding up another card. This one had angel wings and flowers. We miss you, Mommy. Benjamin felt the air leave his lungs. They hadn’t forgotten Amanda. They just made room for someone else. Mick tugged on Benjamin’s sleeve.
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