Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Emma found her voice in a letter—memory pressed to the page, love carried in ink.
Now the story turns to Rachel. Morning light on the road, her children in the backseat, she begins to glimpse how memory might last—through Emma’s resolve, through the fragile smile at her father’s bedside, through the brother she thought she knew.
It’s a chapter about presence revealed in the smallest gestures—a cup cooling on a table, a hand steady on an arm, the silence that, for once, holds more than it withholds.
Chapter Eighteen
The car rolled through the quiet streets, sunlight breaking through the winter haze. Rachel glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Emma’s reflection. Her daughter sat with her journal in her lap. Rachel saw again the way her small frame had trembled the night before, her words still hovering: You can always come to me. About anything.
It had been a long time since she’d seen her daughter smile like that. Regret tightened in her chest, edged now with something softer.
“Mum?”
She glanced at the mirror again. “What is it, love?”
Emma hesitated, then lifted the journal slightly. “I’ve been thinking about something. About Grandad and Grandma.”
Rachel’s hands tensed on the wheel. “What about them?”
“I want to write a book,” Emma said quickly, as though the words might vanish if she didn’t get them out. “About their stories. And ours too. Like… a family book.”
Rachel blinked. “A book? That’s quite an idea.”
Emma sat straighter, her voice steadier now. “I’ve already started writing. I don’t want to forget them. Or the things we’ve done together.”
From the other side of the car, Liam perked up. “Can I be in it? I could be the hero!”
Emma sighed but kept her eyes on Rachel. “It’s not that kind of book, Liam.”
Rachel slowed at a red light, turning slightly in her seat. “That’s a lovely idea, Em. But it’s a lot to take on. Are you sure you’re ready?”
Emma looked down at the journal, her fingers tightening. “It’s not about being ready. It’s about remembering. If I don’t write it down, who will?”
Her words landed with quiet weight. Rachel swallowed hard. “You’re right, love. And you don’t have to do it alone. We’ll help however we can.”
Emma’s shoulders eased. “Thanks, Mum.”
The school lane appeared ahead. Rachel pulled to the curb. Emma gathered her things, clutching the journal as she opened the door.
“Emma,” Rachel called after her.
She turned, framed by the morning light. “Yeah?”
Rachel managed a smile. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. And your Grandad and Grandma would think so too.”
Emma’s face brightened. “Thanks, Mum.” She hurried toward the school doors.
Rachel pulled back into traffic.
“So, Mum,” Liam piped up, “what kind of hero do you think I’d be?”
Rachel smiled despite herself. “Hmm. Probably the kind who’s always getting into trouble but somehow saving the day anyway.”
Liam gasped in mock outrage. “Getting into trouble? Never!”
“Oh no?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe a little. But I’d have a cape. And I’d be really good at fighting bad guys.”
Rachel chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”
He leaned forward, eyes bright. “Maybe I’d be like Grandad’s stories. Fighting dragons or something.”
Rachel’s throat caught—bittersweet this time. “I think Grandad would like that.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll tell Emma to put that in her book!”
The car hummed on. Rachel let herself drift inside Liam’s imagination, Ralph’s voice echoing at the edges. Not perfect. But for a moment, enough.
After dropping Liam, she lingered at a red light. His chatter about heroes, Emma’s quiet determination—they tangled with Ralph’s stories. Family. The weight they carried, the spaces they filled.
She turned toward the hospice. Sunlight pooled on the windshield, bright but powerless to lift the heaviness in her chest. She parked, killed the engine, and stayed with her hands on the wheel. Emma’s tearful apology. Chris’s steady reasoning. The knot of guilt. And then—David.
Rachel exhaled, leaning her head back. David, the wildcard—charm and chaos rolled together. The brother always tripping over shoelaces, somehow still making people laugh. But Emma’s words lingered: It’s not about getting the words perfect. Just about being there.
The simplicity stung—not because it was wrong, but because it was right. That it had come from David unsettled her; she caught herself gripping the steering wheel tighter.
She shook her head and stepped out. The air was sharp against her face. Inside, antiseptic and lavender mingled in the corridor. She slowed as she neared Ralph’s room, soft laughter spilling from the half-open door.
She paused. Peeking in, she saw David at the bedside, a coffee cup in one hand, his other resting lightly on their father’s arm. Ralph looked frail but peaceful, a faint smile tugging at his lips as David spoke.
“...and then you told me, ‘One day you’ll trip over your own shoelaces and fall into something brilliant.’” David chuckled. “You were right about the tripping part. Still waiting on the brilliant.”
Ralph’s laugh, faint but real, caught Rachel off guard. She lingered, watching David lean closer. “Thanks, Dad. For believing I’d figure it out—even when I didn’t.”
Rachel blinked. For years she’d catalogued his flaws—lateness, distractions, missed moments—as though they were all he was. But here: his hand steady on Ralph’s arm, his voice coaxing a smile. Not her way. His. And maybe that was enough.
Her eyes fell to the coffee cup on the table, faint steam still rising. A small act, easy to miss. But proof of presence. She stepped back. She couldn’t go in yet.
In the corridor, she leaned against the cool plaster, letting it steady her. She needed time. To reconcile the brother she knew with the one she’d just seen.
When she returned, David was still there, hand on Ralph’s arm. The coffee sat cooling on the table.
Her shoes scuffed the linoleum. David looked up, nodded once, and turned back.
“Morning,” Rachel said.
“Morning.”
She pulled a chair to the bed, smoothing the blanket though it didn’t need it. Silence stretched, filled with things unsaid.
“He had a good night,” David said at last. “The nurse said he slept better.”
Rachel nodded. “That’s good.”
She glanced at him—shadows under his eyes, posture heavy. Up all night? Or just early? This steadiness unsettled her.
“You’ve been here long?”
He shrugged. “Got in early. Thought I’d sit with him.”
She wanted to thank him for what she’d overheard, but the words tangled in years of frustration.
“I’m going to get some air,” David said, rising.
“Okay.”
He lingered at the door, then slipped out. The soft click left her alone with Ralph. She leaned back, thoughts circling. For all her grievances, she couldn’t deny what she’d seen: the quiet care in David’s gestures, the way he stayed. His own way of showing up. And maybe enough.
Late sun slanted across the parking lot. Rachel stepped out, spotting David leaning against his car, gaze lost in the horizon.
“You’re not supposed to smoke here,” she said. Her voice was softer than she intended.
He startled, glanced at the unlit cigarette in his hand. Smirked. “Just for show.” He dropped it and ground it out.
She walked closer. “How long you been out here?”
“Long enough.”
Silence settled—not sharp this time, but tired, shared.
“I saw you with Dad,” Rachel said finally. “You were… good with him.”
David’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well. Figured I owed him.”
Rachel crossed her arms. “It’s not about owing him. He just wants you here.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hear him in my head every time I screw up?” His voice was low, frayed at the edges. “It’s not owing. It’s showing up. For once.”
Rachel held his gaze. Emma’s words returned, and with them the sting of truth. “You’re doing better,” she said softly, surprised at herself.
David frowned. “That your way of saying I’m not hopeless?”
She allowed the faintest smile. “Don’t push it.”
He chuckled, rubbed his neck, eyes down. “I know I haven’t been reliable. And I know you’re still mad. But I’m trying, Rach. I am.”
She studied him. The tension in her chest loosened. “I know. And I can see that.”
This silence felt different—less fraught, more tentative truce.
“You coming back in?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. Just needed air.”
She stepped toward the hospice, then turned back. “David?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For being there for Emma.”
His expression softened. For a moment the guardedness fell away. A smile—unguarded, familiar—crossed his face. “Anytime.”
Rachel turned back to the doors. The click echoed behind her, lighter than before. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
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