Chapter Five – Holding On [Narrated]
Welcome back to Holding On.
So far, we've sat beside hospital beds, shared silence in hallways, and watched the complicated rhythm of love and regret between a father and his children. We've seen how Rachel carries the weight of presence, and how David slips in sideways—trying, failing, softening.
Grief hasn’t fully arrived. But it’s circling. Time is narrowing. Each word, each look, carries more weight than it did just days ago.
This week, that quiet ache follows Rachel home. What waits there isn't drama—but ordinary life, still in motion. Dinner on the stove. Jenga blocks toppling. Small rituals that carry a family through.
Thanks for staying with them. With her. With this.
Chapter Five
Rachel stumbled out of the building, the night air sharp against her skin. She paused in the car park, chest tight, breath uneven. The world felt blurred.
David’s embrace had been fleeting. He’d retreated, as he always did, leaving her to shoulder the weight alone.
At the car, her fingers fumbled with the key fob. Then she remembered: push-button start. She pressed it. Nothing. Of course. The brake. A sharp exhale. Then ignition.
“Get it together,” she muttered, gripping the wheel.
Streetlights stretched into gold smears as she drove. Her mind looped the doctor’s words: Your mother is unresponsive. In a coma. It’s only a matter of time.
She blinked hard. She’d always been good in a crisis. But this wasn’t one she could solve.
At a red light, she thought of the kids. Liam’s disbelief. Emma’s gaze—steady, watchful. They’d look to her for strength. But she had nothing left to give.
A horn snapped her back. The light was green. She drove on.
The warm glow of the kitchen window caught her eye as she pulled in. Inside, life continued. Out here, everything had changed.
She gripped the wheel tighter. Just one more moment.
Her hand dropped to the center console, brushing aside a forgotten hair tie and an empty juice box. For a moment, she just stared at them—proof of everyday life, proof of how much could shift between errands and emergencies.
Her legs were heavy as she crossed to the front door. Then laughter floated through the cracks.
How could they be laughing?
She opened the door. The scent of bolognese met her. Chris stood at the stove, calm as ever. Emma and Liam leaned over a teetering Jenga tower, their laughter rising with each wobble.
Rachel froze. For a moment, she just watched.
Let them have this. Let them stay untouched a little longer.
But the moment passed.
“Hey, guys,” she said. Her voice caught.
Chris turned, saw her face. He didn’t speak. He switched off the burner and crossed the room, touching her shoulder. “What’s wrong, love?”
She sat down heavily. The kids were already watching.
“We need to talk about Nana,” she said. “The doctor says... she’s in a coma now. She doesn’t have much time left.”
The Jenga tower swayed. Then collapsed.
Liam shoved back his chair. “No! You’re lying!”
Rachel reached for him. He jerked away.
Emma stood, tears silent, and ran upstairs.
Rachel caught Liam before he could follow. She knelt and held him. He fought her, then sagged into her, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I could make it better.”
Chris met her eyes. “I’ll talk to Em,” he said, already on the stairs.
Liam’s sobs softened. Rachel held his tear-streaked face.
“I have to go back to the hospice,” she said. “Grandpa needs me. But Dad will be here. Will you be okay?”
“Is Nana... going to...?”
“She’s very sick. But we’ll make sure she’s comfortable.”
“I don’t want her to go.”
“I don’t either. But she knows how much you love her.”
Chris and Emma came downstairs together. Her eyes were red, but her steps were steady.
“You’re going back,” Chris said. “But first, we eat.”
Rachel nodded.
They moved quietly in the kitchen. Emma drained the pasta. Liam tossed the salad. Rachel set the table. Chris poured water into glasses like it mattered.
They ate in near silence. Only the clink of cutlery.
“When can we see them?” Emma asked.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Rachel said. “We’ll go together.”
The children nodded. Even a small plan gave them something to hold on to.
After dinner, Rachel stood to clear the plates. Chris caught her eye.
“I’ve got things here,” he said. “You go.”
She nodded, but stayed rooted. Hugged Liam. Then Emma. Her children held her tightly, like they understood what she couldn’t say.
At the door, Chris opened his arms.
She stepped into him—and something gave.
No sobs. Just a slow, shaking breath against his chest.
“I can’t fix it,” she whispered. “I always fix things. And I can’t fix this.”
Chris didn’t answer. He just held her. When she pulled back, he placed something in her hand—a wrapped sandwich.
“You won’t eat it, but I’ll feel better knowing you have it.”
She sat in the car again, lights off. In the rearview mirror, the house glowed like a painting. Warm, framed, unreal.
She missed her mother.
The road waited. The night pressed close. And somewhere in the hush of it all, she drove.
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