Anne's POV
After dropping Shelley and Dustin at her place, I drove to the cemetery alone. The snow had stopped, leaving the world quiet and still, and the ground blanketed in white.
Marcus's grave was marked by a simple headstone, his name etched in stark letters. I knelt beside it, placed a bunch of roses I had come along with on the cold stone.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered with a breaking voice. "I didn't see how much you were trying. I was so caught up in my own pain, I didn't see yours."
The wind carried my words away, but I kept going. "I promise I'll take care of them. I'll make sure they know you—really know you. And I'll try to be better. For them. For you."
I stayed there until my body couldn't stand the cold any longer, then drove home, feeling a strange sense of clarity. When I picked up the kids, I sat them down in the living room, the vinyl player softly humming in the background.
"I want to tell you something about your dad," I said, holding the letter. "He wrote this for me, but it's for you too."
I read it to them, my voice trembling but steady. Shelley's eyes filled with tears, and Dustin clutched his toy car, but they listened, hanging onto every word. When I finished, Shelley crawled into my lap, her small arms wrapping around me. "He really loved us, didn't he?" she whispered.
"More than anything," I said, kissing her forehead. "And he always will."
That night, as I lay in bed, the house felt a little less empty. The grief was still there, wild and hungry, but so was a little hope. I didn't know what the future held—whether Liam would be part of it, whether I could forgive myself—but for the first time, I felt like I could face it. I closed my eyes, picturing Marcus's smile, and whispered into the darkness, "We'll be okay."
The days after my visit to Marcus's grave was kind of torturous—every moment was filled with the ache of his absence. There were also obvious changes in the way I carried myself due to all of this.
Reading Marcus's letter to Shelley and Dustin had further strengthened my resolve to honor his love by being the mother they needed, and the woman I wanted to be.
Painfully, the thoughts of Liam refused to leave my head. It stuck fast like the stench of cigarette in a room after smoking. It was a complication I couldn't ignore, no matter how hard I tried.
Later that day, I took the kids to the park. They needed fresh air, and I needed to clear my head. Shelley ran ahead, her scarf trailing behind her, while Dustin clutched my hand, his small fingers warm against my cold ones. The park was quiet, the snow had muffled out the world, and for a moment, I could almost pretend everything was normal.
"Mom, look!" Shelley called, pointing to a snowman some other kids had built. "Can we make one for Daddy?"
I felt a painful rush of sadness, but I smiled. "Of course, sweetie."
We spent the next hour piling snow, shaping it into a lopsided figure. Dustin insisted on giving it a stick for a tie, "like Daddy's." Shelley found a pebble for a nose, giggling as she pressed it into place.
Watching them, I was thankful to Marcus for giving me such smart and beautiful kids. They were grieving, but they were still here and still finding joy in these small moments.
When we got home, I made hot chocolate, and we curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over us. The kids were quieter now, their energy spent.
I pulled out the photo album I'd been avoiding, the one filled with pictures of Marcus—his smile, his laugh, the way he'd looked at us like we were his entire world.
"Tell us some more about Daddy," Dustin said with a soft voice pleadingly as he snuggled closer.
I opened the album, my fingers tracing a photo of Marcus holding Shelley as a baby, his eyes bright with pride. "Your dad was the hardest worker I ever knew," I started, my voice was surprisingly steady despite the lump in my throat. "He wanted to give us everything. But more than that, he loved you both so much. Every time he talked about you, his whole face would light up."
Shelley pointed to a picture of Marcus pushing her on a swing. "He was fun," she said, her voice wistful. "I wish he was here."
"Me too," I whispered, pulling her close. "But he's still with us, in a way. In the things he left behind, in the love he gave us."
We spent the evening lost in memories, our laughter mixing with tears. For the first time since his death, I felt like I was giving them something real, I wasn't too busy checking out my employees or client—I was here for them.
That night, after the kids were asleep, I sat down on a sofa and thought of Liam, his persistence, his charm, and the way he made me feel alive. But that life came at a cost, and it was one I felt I wasn't willing to pay anymore. I needed to be whole for my kids, for myself. Liam had been messaging and calling, and I had been avoiding his calls and not replying his messages. I picked up my phone and typed a message to him: Liam, I appreciate everything, but this has to end. I need to focus on my family. Please don't contact me again. I wanted to hit send and then block and have his number deleted, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt like cutting a piece of myself away. A piece I might not survive without.
The next morning, I woke early, the house bathed in soft light. I made coffee and stood by the window, watching the snow melt under the rising sun. For the first time in weeks, I felt some sense of relief. I won't said I did have all the answers, but I knew I had a purpose, and it was to give Shelley and Dustin the love and stability they deserved, to honor Marcus's memory by living the life he'd wanted for us.
I called Marcus's secretary later that day, asking her to help me sort through Marcus's office. It was time to face the pieces of him I'd been avoiding. his files, his notes, the remnants of his work-driven life, fully taking over his company.
Later that day, she had some of his personal effects sent to me. As I sifted through papers, I found a small notebook tucked in a drawer, filled with Marcus's handwriting. It was a list of dreams—places he wanted to take us, things he wanted to do with the kids, moments he hoped to share. A family trip to Paris, teaching Dustin to fish, watching Shelley graduate. Tears fell as I read, but they were softer now, mixed with gratitude. Maybe the trip to Paris wasn't a bad idea after all.
"We'll do them," I whispered to myself more than to my sister May who was with me. She squeezed my hand. "You're stronger than you know, Anne."
I wasn't sure I believed her, but I wanted to try. For Marcus, for the kids, a d or the woman I was still becoming. As the days turned into weeks, the grief didn't vanish, but it softened, like snow settling into the earth, and Liam's messages grew more persistent. I started small traditions with the kids—Sunday pancake mornings, evening storytimes, visits to Marcus's grave with fresh flowers. Each moment was a step toward healing, a way to weave his love into our lives.
One evening, as the kids slept, I slipped on the red dress Marcus had bought. It fit perfectly, hugging my curves in a way that made me feel beautiful, seen. I stood in front of the mirror, the vinyl player spinning Ella Fitzgerald, and let myself dance, just for a moment. I imagined Marcus there, his hands on my waist, his smile lighting up the room.
"I'm trying," I whispered to the empty air. "I hope you're proud."
The music played on, and for the first time, I felt like I could keep going.