Chapter Four – Holding On [Narrated]

Welcome back to Holding On.

Last week, a cup of coffee never touched. A hallway echo. A brother and sister orbiting around the same grief, but at different distances.

This week, things soften. Not with resolution—but with presence. The kind that doesn’t say much, but stays in the room.

Old stories surface. Some familiar, some not. Rachel listens closely—to her father, to her brother, to what’s being left out. What doesn’t get passed down. What arrives too late.

Not everything is said out loud. But you can feel the shift.

Thank you for reading. For holding space with us.

Chapter Four

Rachel awoke to the sound of soft laughter, distant but unmistakable. For a moment, she lay still, disoriented, exhaustion clinging to her like a heavy blanket.

The room was bathed in twilight, shadows stretching across the walls as the last rays of daylight filtered through the blinds. She shifted, her body stiff from hours curled awkwardly in the chair. How long had she been out?

Across the room, David stood by Ralph’s bedside, his hands moving animatedly as he finished a story.

“And then the bloke turns to me and he says, ‘If this is the shortcut, I’d hate to see the long way!’”

His grin widened, and Ralph let out a faint chuckle—a sound so fragile it made Rachel’s chest tighten with both relief and dread.

David glanced her way, his grin faltering briefly before settling back in place. “Just reliving some of my greatest hits,” he said lightly.

Ralph’s quiet laughter seemed to steady him, though his gaze lingered on their father longer than necessary.

“Talking of greatest hits, do you two remember seeing Barry White at the Albert Hall?”

Ralph’s voice was soft, deliberate, the words falling into the quiet like ripples in still water.

Rachel blinked, caught off guard. “Neither of us were born yet, Dad,” she reminded him gently. “But we know the story. Mum loves telling it.”

David smirked. “Every time she puts his records on, it was like a cue. You couldn’t stop her.”

Ralph smiled faintly. “She did love telling it. But... there’s a part she never included.”

Rachel tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“She always said Barry White sang to her,” Ralph began, his voice growing softer. “And he did. But he stopped when he saw her—held her hand for a moment.”

David raised an eyebrow. “He stopped for her?”

Ralph nodded, his expression distant. “When he saw how pregnant she was, he smiled and mimicked her, putting his hands on his stomach like she was holding hers. She laughed, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had stopped just for her.”

He chuckled faintly. “Said it wasn’t about what Barry White did. It was about how she felt—like nothing else mattered. But that moment... it was special for me too. She’d never been happier.”

Rachel tried to picture it—her mother laughing, radiant and unselfconscious, her father transfixed beside her. A room full of strangers paused for her body, her belly. And yet Rachel had never heard this part. Never been offered it.

A flicker of something hot—something sharp—rose in her chest. Not at Ralph. Not even at Lily. Just at the silence. The way some joy seemed tucked away like it wasn’t meant for her. And maybe it wasn’t.

She said nothing. Just nodded slowly, her throat dry.

Outside, the light dimmed to deep blue. Ralph leaned back against his pillows, his breath becoming shallower, each one stretching the pauses between their words.

Rachel studied David as he animatedly recounted the story of their garden campout, his grin widening at the memory.

“Mum and Dad woke us up at midnight with that thermos of hot chocolate, remember? Mum said the stars don’t wait for morning, and we all ended up lying on that scratchy blanket, freezing but happy.”

Ralph’s chuckle was faint but warm. “Best picnic we ever had,” he murmured, his voice heavy with memory.

Rachel’s gaze lingered on David. His laugh a touch too loud. Humor had always been his shield, but tonight, that shield seemed thinner—almost translucent.

It was easier to laugh with him than to acknowledge the weight he was carrying, or to dwell on how much he hadn’t been here before.

As the last traces of daylight faded, the stories slowed, pauses stretching longer between each one. Rachel rested her chin on her hand, her gaze drifting between Ralph’s fragile form and David, who was coaxing one last smile from their father.

“You’ve got him smiling,” she said softly, her voice threading through the stillness.

David nodded, his hand brushing the edge of Ralph’s blanket with a care that seemed almost reflexive. “Yeah. It’s good to see him like this,” he said, his tone quieter now, as if acknowledging the rarity of such moments.

Rachel hesitated, her words cautious. “And... I’m glad you’re here. He’s always brighter when you are.”

David glanced at her, his expression softening. The grin he usually wore was gone, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. “Thanks, Rach,” he murmured.

The room fell into silence again, broken only by the fragile rhythm of Ralph’s breathing. David glanced at Rachel, his voice lighter but with an edge of something practiced. “Why don’t you head home, sis? I’ve got this.”

Rachel straightened in her chair, the words pulling her focus. “I’m fine—”

David raised a hand, the gesture deliberate but gentle. “I mean it, Rach. You’ve been here all day. Get some rest. I’ll call if anything changes.”

Her fingers tightened around the back of her chair, her feet rooted to the spot. Ralph’s shallow breaths seemed to tether her in place.

Rachel’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can.”

She didn’t mean it as weakness. She meant: I’ve been here. Every day. Every hour you weren’t. She meant: Don’t show up now with your careful voice and your practiced kindness and ask me to trust it.

But she didn’t say any of that. Just stared at their father, willing herself not to cry.

David’s gaze met hers, steady but softer than she expected. “It’s not about needing to,” he said gently. “It’s about being able to come back tomorrow and still have something left to give. You’ve done enough today. Let me take this one.”

Her eyes drifted back to Ralph. The rise and fall of his chest was fragile, deliberate. A pang of guilt twisted in her stomach—what if this was the last time?

She wanted to fight. But her body had already decided. Her limbs felt thick with silence. Her breath snagged in her throat.

“Okay,” she murmured, the word breaking as it left her lips. “But you’ll call me if anything changes?”

David nodded, his small smile reassuring but unable to lift the weight pressing down on her.

Rachel lingered for a moment longer, the air around her heavy with unspoken worries. Then, finally, she turned toward the door, her steps heavy, each one carrying her farther from the fragile peace she had found.

The shift from the cozy room to the stark hallway felt jarring, the air colder, sharper.

Her footsteps faltered as she rounded a corner, nearly colliding with someone. Startled, Rachel blinked up at the doctor—calm, composed, her white coat immaculate.

“Sorry,” Rachel muttered, her tone sharper than she intended.

The doctor’s expression remained steady, her voice warm but professional. “No harm done. I was just on my way to check on your dad.”

Rachel’s breath hitched, the words grounding her in the reality she’d tried to avoid. She nodded, straightening slightly. “I’ll walk with you,” she said, her voice quieter now, steadier than she felt inside.

When they entered the room, David looked up mid-sentence, his words halting at the sight of them. His brow furrowed briefly in question, but he didn’t speak as Rachel slipped quietly to his side.

The doctor offered a brief, practiced smile as she approached Ralph’s bedside. “Why don’t you both step out while I examine him? Stretch your legs or grab some coffee.”

Rachel hesitated, her gaze fixed on Ralph’s frail form. The thought of leaving felt unbearable, as though it might sever some unseen thread holding them all together.

David’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on. We’ll stay close.”

David busied himself with the kettle, his movements slightly uneven. Rachel lingered by the counter, her shoulders tight as though bracing for something unspoken.

He moved like someone trying to prove competence in small rituals. As if boiling water could make up for absence.

“You’d think they’d have a coffee machine,” David muttered. It was a reach for levity, but the tone fell flat.

Rachel didn’t smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Hospice priorities.”

He didn’t look up.

The door to the lounge opened, the sound almost imperceptible, and Rachel turned to see the doctor stepping inside. Her calm expression didn’t ease the heaviness in Rachel’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor began, her voice steady, each word deliberate. “Your mother has slipped into a coma. She’s unresponsive now, but we’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable.”

The doctor met her gaze, her calmness unwavering. “It’s a natural progression,” she explained gently. “Her body is conserving energy now, but I assure you, she’s comfortable.”

Rachel shook her head as if trying to will the words away. “No,” she murmured, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled, and the mug slipped slightly in her grasp.

David’s voice broke through the fog. “Rach.”

It was quiet, steady, an anchor.

Rachel reached for his sleeve, gripping it tightly. His arm tensed beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away.

The doctor’s tone softened further. “We’re focused on making sure she’s at peace. She knows how much you’ve both been here for her... for both of them.”

The room was still when Rachel and David returned, the bedside lamp casting a soft, uneven glow. The air felt heavier, as though even time had slowed to match Ralph’s unsteady breaths. Propped up in bed, Ralph rested against the pillows.

Rachel stepped in first. The sight of Ralph’s hand on Lily’s sent a pang through her chest—bittersweet and grounding.

She hesitated before speaking, her voice gentle. “Dad, why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

Ralph stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He glanced between Rachel and David, his gaze lingering on them with a faint smile—tired, but content. “Can’t sleep. Not tonight,” he murmured, his voice thin but steady.

David set his untouched tea on the table and sank into the chair beside Rachel. He didn’t say anything, but his presence carried weight, his focus fixed on their father as though trying to memorize the shape of this night.

The room settled into a silence too full for words. Ralph’s hand shifted faintly over Lily’s. “Your mam,” he murmured after a while, his voice so soft it was barely audible.

Rachel leaned closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his blanket.

“She’s always known how to look after us,” Ralph continued, his words slow but deliberate, his gaze unfocused.

David exhaled, rubbing his temple absently as though trying to ease a thought too big to hold. “She still does,” he said quietly, the words carrying a quiet conviction.

Rachel glanced at David, something unspoken passing between them. She placed her hand over Ralph’s, her fingers brushing his cool skin. “She does,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

Ralph’s eyes drifted shut, his breathing evening out into a fragile rhythm. “That’s your mam,” he murmured faintly, more to himself than to them.

Rachel stayed beside him, her hand resting lightly on his. His grip was faint, but it steadied her, anchoring her to something older than grief.

Her gaze shifted to Lily. Her mother’s frail form was still, her breaths shallow but persistent. The silence around her felt vast. But beneath it lingered a quiet strength, unbroken even now.

Rachel leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll be alright,” she said.

But the words hung there, unanswered.

She stayed that way—hand to hand, voice to air—wondering if saying it could make it true. Or if some part of her had said it just to see what silence would do with it.

If this chapter resonates...

Subscribe to follow the story week by week, or share it with someone who understands the quiet ache of holding on.