Chapter Seventeen – Holding On [Narrated]

Welcome back to Holding On.

Last time, Rachel found her way back to Emma’s door. Apology softened anger, and in the quiet of the morning, mother and daughter folded back into each other.

Now the story tilts toward Emma. Alone in her room, she turns guilt into words, silence into a page. What began as David’s suggestion becomes her own act of courage.

It’s a chapter about voice emerging from stillness—about memory finding shape in ink, and about the choice to carry love not alone, but together.

Chapter Seventeen

Emma sat cross-legged on her bed after Rachel left, her fingers tracing patterns into the blanket. The gurgle of the radiator filled the stillness, but her thoughts spun too quickly to settle. Her mum’s apology replayed in her head—the tremble in her voice when she’d said, You can always talk to me. About anything.

She wanted to believe it. Part of her did. But another part, the heavier part, couldn’t shake the guilt. Turning to Uncle David hadn’t been about not trusting her mum. It was the tired look she carried, the one that made Emma feel like she was an extra bag slung over her shoulder.

Uncle David felt lighter. When he’d said, Of course, Em. What’s on your mind? there was no rush in his voice, only ease. He hadn’t tried to fix anything. He’d just listened. And when he admitted he didn’t always know what to say to Grandad either, it was like a light switching on. She wasn’t alone.

Her palms pressed to her cheeks, skin tacky from dried tears. Her mum’s hug had been full of love, solid and real.

Her gaze fell to the journal on her bedside table. His suggestion lingered like a spark: Write Grandad a letter.

She reached for the journal and opened it to a blank page. The lines stretched before her, inviting and intimidating. Her pen hovered, her fingers tightening around the barrel. Finally, she pressed the tip down:

Dear Grandad,

At first, the words came slow, uneven. Then the memories loosened. She wrote about the kite he’d built her, how they’d flown it until the string burned her fingers. She wrote about his quiet jokes, the way he always let her win at cards but pretended not to. She added the smell of peppermint on his breath when he leaned down to whisper, Easy now, tiger—a phrase he used whenever she lost her temper. Seeing it on the page made him feel close again.

Her chest tightened, but she kept going. She wrote about how much she loved him, even if she didn’t always know how to say it.

When she finished, she set the pen down and stared at the page. The words weren’t perfect. They were hers.

She hugged the journal close, fingers running along the worn edge. If she wanted to share it, she’d need someone to take her. Uncle David would come if she asked, but she hesitated. Dad would mean well, but she pictured his foot tapping, the silence breaking too soon.

Her mum, though.

Emma thought of the promise whispered in her mum’s apology: You can always come to me. About anything.

Tomorrow, she’d try. She pictured the journal resting between them, her mum’s hand steadying it, maybe even adding her own words for Grandad.

Emma lay back, the journal pressed to her chest. Beyond the door the house was quiet, but here, in her room, a silence waited—open, not heavy.


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