Only Ever Almost

On the fourth day after my son's death, I decided to secretly dissolve my military marriage with my husband.

Before that, I had three days to settle everything for my son.

On the first day, I tricked my husband into signing the cremation papers.

On the second day, I went to the school and collected the textbooks my son would never get to use.

On the third day, I cooked a table full of dishes and begged my husband to celebrate our son's last birthday.

He agreed, but soon after claimed he had a mission. Instead, he spent the entire night setting off fireworks with his childhood sweetheart.

That night, I cooked. Then, I sat alone before my son's photo and ate all my son's favorite foods.

The next day, my husband returned, guilt flickering in his eyes as he handed me a brand-new backpack. He said it was a gift for our child's first day of school.

But he didn't know—our child would never have a first day of school.

On the fourth day after my son, Caleb, died, I ran into Flint Dumpsey in the hospital corridor.

He had one hand protectively over Lucy Wendell and the other holding their child's hand. They were the perfect picture of a happy family. Yet I was his wife.

The smile vanished from Flint's face the moment he saw me.

"What are you doing here? Are you trying to cause trouble for Lucy again?" he asked, eyes sharper and colder than Caleb's still body.

Lucy casually looped her arm through his and glanced at me with an embarrassed, apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Amanda. Flint's just been so worried about me, that's why he sounded harsh." She nudged her child and motioned for him to speak.

The boy glanced my way and then called out dutifully, "Hello."

Then he scrambled into Flint's arms and chirped, "Daddy."

Once, hearing that would have squeezed my heart with a bitter ache. Now I felt only exhaustion — deep, bone-deep fatigue. I drew a steadying breath, intending to tell him that our son had died, but Flint cut me off and began to usher them away.

"If there's nothing, Lucy and I will go ahead. Jesse isn't feeling well; I need to take him to the doctor." His eyes shifted; I moved as if to step aside.

Lucy laughed lightly, teasing, "Flint, don't get yourself worked up. Jesse probably just ate too much — it's nothing." She glanced at me and magnanimously added, "Amanda, if you need to talk to Flint, you can chat now. I'll take Jesse to the clinic."

Ridiculous. I was Flint's lawful wife, yet another woman had to offer me permission to speak with him. More absurd still, he wouldn't even listen.

No sooner had Lucy spoken than Flint frowned in disagreement. "Lucy, don't be ridiculous. You can't ignore a child's illness."

Ignore it? Was he for real?

I tightened my grip on Caleb's death certificate and felt my heart cramp.

Four days earlier, Caleb had an asthma attack and teetered on the edge of life. I had grabbed Flint as he was about to leave and begged him to take our son to the hospital at once.

He had sneered, shrugged my hand off, and said, "Amanda, do you think I'm stupid? His asthma isn't new. A little medicine will do."

He added, "Lucy's been waiting for me to take Jesse to the park. Don't bother me."

Then he drove away without looking back.

I was left begging through the neighborhood, crying, pleading for anyone to take Caleb to the hospital. It was too late. The son I had raised for seven years, who was just about to start school, was gone.

That day, I pleaded with the doctors until I ran out of tears, but nothing could make Caleb open his eyes and call me "mom" again. Meanwhile, Flint was enjoying an outing in the park with Lucy and her son.

How bitterly ironic.

I came back to myself and found Flint already gone, leading Lucy's child away and giving me no chance to speak. Only Lucy had offered an apologetic smile as she passed.

I had received far too many of those looks in the past four days.