Chapter Seven – Holding On [Narrated]

Welcome back to Holding On.

Last time, Rachel came home to chaos—the good kind. Sauce on the stove. Jenga on the table. Her children loud, alive. But beneath it all: the weight. Lily’s decline. The hard truths circling closer.

There were no grand scenes. Just small breaks. Liam in tears. Emma withdrawing. Rachel, splintering at the edges, held fast by Chris’s quiet care.

Now, the house is behind her. She’s back at the hospice.

This chapter doesn’t pivot. It deepens. In the hush of morning light, grief takes quieter forms—toast, marmalade, a trembling hand. A shave. A phone call. The ache of waiting wrapped in ritual.

Thank you for entering this stillness. For staying with her. With them. With this.

Chapter Seven

Hours later, Rachel stirred, her neck stiff from the awkward angle she’d slept in. A dull ache radiated down her shoulders as she blinked against the dim glow of the bedside lamp. As consciousness returned, so did the heaviness—her mother’s coma, her father’s fragile health, and the relentless uncertainty of what lay ahead.

The reality didn’t crash in all at once but rose like a tide, slow and unrelenting, pressing into her chest.

A soft click of the door pulled her from her thoughts. A nurse was leaving the room, her steps light and purposeful. As the door eased shut, she glanced back at Rachel with a small, reassuring nod—wordless, familiar.

Rachel rubbed her eyes and turned toward the bed, surprised to find her father awake. His gaze was steady, shadowed with the concern of someone who had seen too much.

“Dad,” she said, straightening in her chair. Her voice was soft, thick with a burden she hadn’t yet managed to set down. “How are you feeling?”

Ralph’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile, the deep lines around his eyes etched with exhaustion.
“I’m alright, love. But you—you look like you’ve got the world on your back.”

The words struck a chord. Rachel hesitated, then reached for his hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they closed around his. His grip was weaker than she remembered, but warm. Familiar. Grounding.

“Dad…” Her voice cracked. “How am I supposed to do this without you and Mum?”

Ralph’s expression softened. The worry in his eyes eased into something steadier. His grip tightened—just barely—as he leaned forward.
“Rachel, love,” he said, voice low but firm, “you’ve always been the strong one. Even David knows it—though he’d never admit it without calling you bossy first.”

A faint, shaky laugh escaped her lips.
“David thinks bossy is my defining trait.”

“Well,” Ralph said, the effort of a chuckle rattling in his chest, “bossy and strong aren’t so different, are they? Someone’s got to keep this family in line.”
His tone flickered with humor, but his gaze remained steady.
“You’ve held us together through thick and thin. It’s what you do.”

His words lingered, bittersweet and grounding all at once.

Rachel tightened her grip.
“I don’t feel strong,” she whispered. “I feel like I’m barely managing.”

Ralph’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet resolve.
“That’s what it means to care, love. It doesn’t make you weak—it’s what makes you human.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Rachel nodded, throat too tight for words, and rested her head against his arm, letting his warmth soothe the ache in her chest.

For a few moments, she let herself breathe, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
In that fragile silence, she almost believed him.

The nurse returned with a breakfast tray for Ralph, her presence soft but purposeful. She adjusted the bed so he could sit upright, then lifted the dome to reveal bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of tea.

These days, meals weren’t about appetite.
They were rituals—small anchors in a world beginning to list.

“Would you like me to cut your food for you?” she asked gently, placing the tray on the table.

Ralph shook his head, offering a faint smile.
“Our lass here will manage,” he said, his voice rasping slightly.
“I used to do it for her when she were little. Turnabout’s fair play.”

The nurse chuckled, brushing his shoulder in a gesture both practiced and kind.

Rachel picked up the knife and fork, cutting the bacon into tidy pieces with the ease of habit.
“You didn’t talk much when you fed me,” she said, sliding the plate closer.
“Mostly told me to stop playing with my food.”

“Well, it’s good advice,” Ralph replied with a dry chuckle—more rasp than sound, but still warm.

Rachel turned to the toast, spreading marmalade in slow, even strokes. Her hands began to slow as her gaze drifted toward her mother’s bed.

The stillness there was deafening—a sharp contrast to the soft clink of cutlery.
These small acts—cutting bacon, spreading marmalade—felt like defiance in the face of the inevitable.

“Bit more on the edges, love,” Ralph murmured, drawing her back.
“Don’t skimp on a man’s marmalade.”

She huffed softly, shaking her head as she added another dollop, smoothing it into the corners.
“Satisfied?” she asked, holding it up.

Ralph nodded, taking the slice with careful hands.
“Perfect,” he said lightly, and took a bite.

She smiled faintly, her heart aching at the effort each movement cost him.
But he made a show of it—chewing with exaggerated appreciation.

She knew he wasn’t hungry.
He was doing it for her, to keep her from worrying.

Her gaze slipped back to Lily’s bed.
Her mother lay unmoving, breath shallow and uneven.

The contrast settled around her—unyielding and clear.
She could still guide her father through the motions.
But her mother was already drifting past reach.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, her phone cool against her ear.

Chris’s voice broke through the stillness—warm, reassuring, tinged with early morning grogginess.
“Morning, love,” he said softly.

She glanced at her watch—6:30 a.m.—and winced.
“Sorry for calling so early,” she murmured.

Chris yawned, humor threading through.
“You forget I’m a parent. Early mornings come with the gig.”
His voice softened. “How are you holding up?”

Her gaze drifted to her father, who was carefully setting his empty cup back on the tray. His hand trembled slightly as he gave her a small, approving nod.

She managed a faint smile.
“About as well as anyone could expect,” she said, her voice lower now. “It was... a long night.”

“I figured,” Chris replied.
“The kids and I stayed up late too. We’ve been working on something.”

Curiosity broke through her fatigue.
“What kind of something?”

“Nice try,” he teased, the grin in his voice unmistakable.
“It’s a surprise. Sworn to secrecy. You know better than to challenge a kid pact.”

Despite everything, Rachel laughed.
“Fine. Just promise it doesn’t involve glitter. I’m still finding sparkles from last Christmas.”

Chris chuckled, and the sound lifted something in her chest.
“No promises. Liam’s in charge of creativity—he’s on a roll.”

She smiled again.
The image of Liam’s intense concentration warmed her, even as it stirred a familiar ache.
When had simple anticipation last felt real?

“How are your mum and dad?” Chris asked, more gently now.

Rachel exhaled, rubbing her forehead.
“Mum’s stable, but the nurse says her breathing’s shallower. They’re keeping her comfortable. Dad… he’s holding up. Ate breakfast. I’m about to give him a shave—wants to look sharp for her.”

Chris’s voice softened.
“That sounds like him. And you? Are you looking after yourself?”

The question settled over her.
“I’m managing,” she said after a pause, though the word felt thin. “It’s just... a lot.”

“You don’t have to do it all alone, Rach,” he said gently.
“Lean on us. That’s what we’re here for.”

A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it.
“Thanks, love. Are the kids up?”

“They’re up,” Chris replied, the smile returning to his voice.
“Putting the finishing touches on their surprise. I should probably check on them before Liam turns the kitchen into a glue factory.”

Rachel let out a soft laugh.
“Please do. Are you still planning to come around ten?”

“Of course,” he said, without hesitation.
“We’ll be there.”

“Good.”
A flicker of anticipation touched her voice—unexpected, but welcome.
“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hang in there, Rach,” Chris said, steady and sure.
“We’ll see you soon.”

When the call ended, Rachel lingered, staring at the screen.
Chris’s steadiness had taken some of the heaviness from her shoulders—though not all.

 She set down the phone and glanced at her father, folding his napkin with practiced care. His hands trembled, movements slow but precise.

She smiled faintly at the calm concentration on his face—a small echo of the man who had always insisted on doing things properly, no matter the cost.

The thought of the children’s surprise lingered, a soft glow against the heaviness of the morning.

Her chest tightened with steady resolve.
She picked up the tray and gave Ralph a small smile.

“Alright, Dad,” she said, her voice lifting just a little.
“Time for that shave.”

Shaving Ralph was a slow, deliberate process.
His skin—delicate and pale—demanded careful strokes of the razor.

Rachel didn’t mind.
Her hands moved with steady precision, each rhythmic motion grounding her against the swell of uncertainty.

“Steady, lass,” Ralph teased, his voice carrying a shadow of its old humor.
“Don’t fancy walking around with a nicked-up mug.”

Rachel smiled softly, tilting his chin upward to catch the light.
“You know I’m a perfectionist, Dad. No half-measures.”

“That you are, lass” Ralph said, his tone warm. He closed his eyes as his breathing evened out, surrendering to the moment.

The small ritual brought bittersweet comfort.
As she rinsed the blade, her gaze lingered on the deep lines etched into his face—
each one a map of a life lived fully:
mornings on the farm, long road trips, lessons passed down at the kitchen table.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly, the tug of memory catching her off guard.
This—this—she could still give him.
A thread of normalcy in a world slowly coming undone.

“You’re good at this,” Ralph murmured, his voice softer now, and tinged with approval.

Rachel chuckled faintly, dabbing a towel against his cheek.
“Well, you did teach me to peel potatoes when I was six.
Guess all those years of practice paid off.”

Ralph’s laugh—light and nostalgic—eased the room’s heaviness.
“And here I thought I was teaching you resilience.
Turns out, I was training a barber.”

She smiled again, the sound of his laugh a rare reprieve.
“I think I’ve earned my spot as your personal barber. No complaints, right?”

“None at all, lass,” Ralph replied, his faint smile softening his gaze.
“You always were one for details.
Even when you were little, lining your crayons up just so—same as your mum.”

Rachel stilled.
The comment landed like a tap on a bruise.
Her fingers paused, razor idle.

“She taught me well,” she said softly, the words thick with memory and longing.

The moment hung in the air until the door creaked open and David stepped in, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a chair.

“What’s this?” he said. “A barbershop now?”

Ralph chuckled, patting his freshly shaven cheek with approval.
“Your sister’s got a new calling. I might keep her on retainer.”

Rachel smirked, wringing out the towel.
“Don’t get any ideas, Dad. This is a family-exclusive service.”

David stepped closer, his teasing tone gentler now as he reached to pat Ralph’s shoulder.
“You’re looking sharp, old man. Mum will like that.”

His gaze drifted to Rachel.
“It’s good to see you like this, Dad. Feels... almost normal, doesn’t it?”

Rachel met his eyes. No edge. No defensiveness. Just something careful—tentative.

“Normal’s generous,” she said, her voice gentler now.
She handed him the warm cloth with a small nod.
“Here. Make yourself useful.”

David huffed a laugh but took the cloth without protest, folding it with care.
“Guess I’m on cleanup duty. Fine by me.”

He turned to Ralph, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“You’re still the same stubborn old man, though.”

Ralph chuckled. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Rachel glanced between them, her chest tightening with something almost tender.

For all their differences—for all the years and distance—they were here.
Not holding on, exactly.
Just present.
Still tethered to what mattered most.

The nurse entered quietly, carrying a small bowl of water and a washcloth.
Her movements were calm, practiced—each one measured with the ease born of long experience.

“How’s Mum doing?” Rachel asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The nurse adjusted Lily’s IV with gentle precision, her touch light but sure.
“She’s stable for now,” she replied, tone even but softened with compassion.
“Her breathing’s shallower, but she’s resting. We’re keeping her comfortable.”

Rachel nodded.
Stable—such a fragile word, like the moment itself.
Offering no promise. Only pause.

“Can I do that?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it, and her voice caught.

The nurse paused, then handed her the cloth with a soft, reassuring smile.
“Of course. Take your time.”

The washcloth felt cool and damp in Rachel’s hand, its weight oddly grounding.
She hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed on her mother’s still form.
Then, deliberately, she stepped to the bedside.
Each movement a conscious tether to the here and now.

She dabbed the cloth gently across Lily’s forehead, careful not to disturb the delicate hush surrounding them.
The act was small—almost mundane—yet it anchored her.
It was something still within her reach.

Her hand moved in slow, thoughtful circles.
The rhythm soothed her.
A memory surfaced—soft and uninvited—but welcomed.
She heard her mother’s voice guiding her younger self through early-morning chaos:
A tidy braid and a clean shirt will get you through anything, Lily had said, smoothing Rachel’s hair with deft fingers. Start with what you can control.

“She always liked to be tidy,” Rachel murmured, mostly to herself.
“Even when she was running late, she’d pause—fix her hair, straighten her blouse.”

From his chair, Ralph offered a faint, wistful smile.
“Your mum had a way of making everything seem put together—no matter what was going on around her.”

Rachel nodded, still focused on Lily.
“She used to pin my braids so tight they wouldn’t budge all day,” she said softly.
“Said that looking put together gave you strength—even if you didn’t feel strong.”

From the doorway, David’s voice drifted in.
“Remember her birthday last year? She insisted on baking her own cake, even though we told her to take it easy.”

A warmth flickered in Rachel’s chest as she let out a soft laugh, laced with both affection and ache.
“And it was perfect, of course. She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The room paused again, dense with memory.
Rachel’s motions slowed as she moistened Lily’s hands,
the cloth brushing over paper-thin skin.
She smoothed the blanket across her mother’s shoulders—
each gesture careful, precise—
a wordless promise of care.

As Rachel gently patted her mother’s forehead with a damp washcloth,  she suddenly heard her dad's voice booming behind her
“Bloody hell!”

Ralph’s tone blended shock and delight.
A wheezy chuckle echoed through the stillness like a pebble dropped into calm water.
David’s laughter joined in—a rare, welcome break.

Startled, Rachel turned, the washcloth slipping from her hand.
She stared at the doorway—jaw dropping.

Chris and the kids stood there, grinning like they’d stepped out of a Christmas card.
They wore festive sweaters so garish they practically glowed under the dim hospital light.
Liam’s flashed with a blinking red reindeer nose.
Emma jingled with every step, draped in tinsel and tiny ornaments.
Even Chris’s jumper featured a grinning Santa with a fluffy 3D beard.

They carried presents wrapped in mismatched paper with crooked bows.
Rachel froze—caught between disbelief and a warmth that prickled her eyes.

Chris stepped forward, clearing his throat, voice wrapped in excitement and hesitation.
“So, uh… last night,” he began, “Emma was upset her grandparents wouldn’t get to see her solo in the Christmas concert.
And Liam—he was gutted about the gift he’d made.”

Her heart clenched at their hopeful faces, brighter than any blinking light.

“So,” Chris continued, softer now,
“we thought… why not bring Christmas to them?
Who says it has to be December?”
He glanced from Rachel to Ralph.
“Is it… too much?”

Ralph leaned forward, grin wide enough to take years off him.
“Too much? Not a chance.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“It’s bloody lovely.”

Rachel swallowed hard, a wave of emotion cresting inside her.
The love behind it left her breathless.
Tears pricked her eyes, but a smile broke through.
She reached for Chris’s hand and squeezed it firmly.

“It’s not too much,” she said, voice trembling.
“It’s perfect.”

Emma placed a tiny Christmas tree on the table,
its ornaments flickering gently as she switched on battery-powered lights.
Liam draped garland along the windowsill with careful focus.

Ralph adjusted in his chair, eyes gleaming as he watched.
“Looks like I’ll need that Santa hat,” he said, hoarse but amused.

Emma giggled and pulled out a bright red hat.
Ralph took it with mock ceremony and settled it atop his head—
prompting delighted laughter.

Chris moved to Lily’s bedside, setting a wrapped gift beside her pillow.
His hand lingered before he stepped back, meeting Rachel’s gaze.
No words—just steady presence.

For a second, Rachel thought she must be dreaming.
Then Emma giggled again, and it hit her:
this wasn’t an escape—
it was love, deliberately, defiantly brought to her door.

She watched as the sterile room transformed—
lights blinking,
the soft pine scent of a candle drifting through the air,
and her children’s laughter weaving warmth into the space.
The ordinary felt sacred.

She looked at Ralph.
Awe and quiet pride softened every line of his face.

“They get it from you, you know,” she murmured.

Ralph’s eyes glistened.
“From all of us.”

Rachel nodded.
Something in the burden she’d carried eased—just enough.
She glanced across the room, finding Chris’s eyes.
The silent gratitude passing between them said more than words ever could.

Rachel didn’t know what the next hour—
or the next day—
would bring.
But for now, there was light.
Laughter.
And something close to hope.

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