He knew he couldn’t beg or argue to make that change.
And he also knew he could be angry with me but never at Della because none of this was her fault.
It’d been a depressing week, but finally, either his brain numbed him to the reality of our future, or his upcoming birthday had pushed his worries aside because he was the same happy kid as before.
He had the choice of a party with all his friends for his birthday or a camping trip just him, me, and Della. He’d chosen camping, and that was exactly what I was going to do. Regardless if the thought of hiking miles into the forest no longer filled me with excitement but worry on how I’d do it without passing out.
Della watched my nine fingers as I finished wrapping the boxed knife and smoothed the neat package.
“He doesn’t even realise that that will be his greatest treasure when he’s older.” Tears glossed her eyes, overflowing as she kept staring at my hands. “His first knife from his dad. A dad I hope to God he remembers.”
“Hey…” Pulling her into my arms, I kissed her hair. “Don’t do that. Please. I can’t stand it.”
She clutched me tight, her arms squeezing until I coughed again. She allowed a couple of sobs before shutting the hatch and smiling with salt-wet cheeks. “Sorry. Moment of weakness, that’s all.”
I kept holding her, not letting go.
She thought I didn’t know, but a few times a year, she’d unload her broken heart to Cassie, talk about me, miss me, then bottle it all back up again to be strong for me.
I never asked what Cassie said to her.
I never pried and begged to know what fears Della shared.
I knew enough not to need to.
Living with a dying man was not easy.
Especially when that dying man had loved you since you were born.
I hated that making love to my wife made me pant as if I’d run two lengths of the paddock at full tilt.
I hated that I couldn’t stop the light-headedness and abhorrent sensation of having no control over my body.
I hated everything about this.
Letting Della go, I kissed the soft skin beside her mouth. “It’s important he knows I don’t think of him as a kid. I was eight when I first used tools and farming equipment—”
“I know he idolizes you, but he’s not you, Ren. He hasn’t been thrust into survival mode and forced to grow up far before his time. He doesn’t know hardship like you do.” Her fingers landed on my cheek, tracing the sharper cheekbone and stroking a more angled jaw. “You were never ten years old when you ran with me. You were fifty in a kid’s body. You were never a typical child.”
“And Jacob is not a typical son.”
She grinned sadly. “You’re right. He’s your son.”
“No. He’s our son.” I coughed again, cursing the ever-tightening curse in my chest. “And our son is smart and brave and wise, and he will remember me. Just like you will. You’ll both remember how much I love you and that I’ll never be truly gone.”
Della nodded, unable to speak.
For a moment, I let us sit in the puddle of sadness, then I stood, coughed, and tapped her on the butt. “Go get the backpack and the child. It’s time to camp.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
DELLA
* * * * * *
2032
WE SET UP camp as a family.
Erecting the tent, we put our sleeping bags in one wing and Jacob’s in the other.
Our journey hadn’t been as easy as previous excursions. We hadn’t gone as far, but it had taken twice as long. I’d carried the backpack—against Ren’s wishes—but I couldn’t allow him to lug more weight when he already struggled with his own.
Ren’s cough crucified him, bending him over a few times, spitting up blood toward the end.
I’d told Jacob to run ahead as Ren clutched my hand through one attack, stumbling for breath, his hand on his heart as it palpitated to an uneven rhythm.
I’d murmured calm nothings, rubbed his back, cursing the noticeable nodules of his spine.
I’d been strong for him and kept my panic hidden.
But it didn’t mean it didn’t grow with every little reminder that things were coming to an end. That our life together was almost over.
My heart was held together with sticky tape and bandages.
My eyes were made of tears and terror.
I couldn’t explain the toll loving Ren took on me when he faded day by day from this world to the next.
Some days, I wished I could stop loving him.
I wished I could pack up my feelings in neatly labelled boxes, and store them in the attic of my mind for a time when dust and time had made them less painful.
But that only made me feel like a weak, wicked woman, and I’d throw myself into loving him even more.