"Mom, you haven't made that pickled fish stew in a long time. Can you make it tomorrow? Wait for Dad and me to come home to eat?"
Children are terrifyingly fickle. One second, you're the enemy; the next, you're simply the cook.
Blake was only in elementary school. I told myself his temperament was just a phase, that his heart wasn't truly malicious. He was just... impressionable.
My rigid expression softened. I couldn't help it. "Alright," I said, resigned. "Remember to bring your asthma inhaler tomorrow. Take care of yourself. If anything happens, call me immediately."
That night, sleep refused to claim me.
When I did drift off, I was trapped in a nightmare of relentless, pouring rain—the same deluge from the night my parents died. The water rose around me, cold and suffocating, unending.
I woke with a start several times, instinctively reaching across the mattress. The sheets beside me were cold.
Harrison wasn't there.
I remembered his excuse: I don't want to wake you up early, so I'll sleep in the study.
A flimsy lie. In the past, even when he had 5:00 AM shifts, he never left our bed. He used to cling to me until the last possible second.