Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Rachel’s anger spilled out unchecked, words falling where they weren’t meant to. Emma heard more than her mother intended, and the slammed door left the house holding its silence.
Now the fracture bends toward repair. Chris steadies Rachel, Lily’s stories echo through the kitchen, and Emma opens her door once more.
It’s a chapter about bridges rebuilt in whispers—about presence carried in touch, in objects, in the silence that finally gives space instead of weight.
Chapter Sixteen
Chris’s voice cut the quiet. “She told me about it, Rach.”
Rachel turned from the stairs. His calm expression caught her, steady where she felt anything but.
“She’s been carrying a lot lately,” he said, stepping closer. “She’s scared. And tonight, David was there for her.”
Her shoulders sagged, the weight of the day pressing in. “I didn’t see it… didn’t realize.”
Chris set a hand on her arm. “You’ve had so much to carry. And David was exactly who she needed tonight.”
Rachel’s gaze slid back to the staircase. Her fingers pressed against the bannister, the wood digging into her palm. “I need to make this right.”
His hand steadied. “You do. But not tonight.”
Her breath caught. “But—”
“Sleep on it. If you go now, you’ll be running on fumes. That won’t help anyone—not Emma, not your dad, not you.”
Her resistance softened. Weariness crept through her bones. She nodded, reluctant but resigned.
Chris gave a small smile. “It’s the right call, love. You’ll be there for her when you’re not spent.”
Rachel looked at the stairs again, her grip loosening on the bannister. Maybe rest was part of making it right.
At the kitchen window, Rachel stared into the dark street. Her thoughts slid toward her mother. Lily had a way of lightening even heavy moments. Not because life was easy, but because she spun them into stories.
Rachel could hear her voice: laughter woven into late-night talk, a small disaster retold until it became belonging.
Her hand brushed the side of an old marmalade jar on the counter, label half-peeled. Lily timing toast, making breakfast into ritual. Small things that became anchors.
Rachel stood still, memory snagging in her chest. The family felt fractured now. Could she hold them the same way her mother had?
She thought of Emma upstairs, apologizing for what wasn’t hers. The way her eyes lit at Lily’s stories, questions tumbling after. That spark—so much like Lily’s. Maybe the thread was still there.
Chris’s words replayed as her thumb traced the counter grooves: David was there for her when she needed it. How had she missed Emma’s fear, her faltering words for her Grandad? She remembered Emma talking about writing him a letter—had she given up on it? The thought tightened her shoulders, her nails biting into the wood.
The house lay still, silence thick.
David. Emma had trusted him. He’d found the words she needed.
Rachel’s arms dropped. Emma’s tear-streaked face hovered in memory: He told me it’s okay not to say everything perfectly.
She breathed out. She had been too tangled in grief, too angry with David, to see what Emma needed.
Streetlights stretched shadows over the garden. She thought of all the times she’d told herself she was holding things together. Tonight, the cracks showed.
She couldn’t undo it. But she could start again.
The following morning, Rachel knocked on Emma’s door. “Emma? It’s Mum. Can I come in?”
Silence. Then the door edged open—Emma, tear-streaked.
“Hey, love. Can we talk?”
Emma clutched the frame. For a beat, Rachel braced for rejection. Then Emma nodded and stepped back.
Rachel closed the door and perched on the bed. Emma climbed up, knees pulled tight.
Rachel waited, letting the pause hold. “Emma, I’m sorry. I never wanted you to feel like you couldn’t come to me.”
Emma tugged at her sleeve. “I didn’t want to bother you. You’re always so busy. I didn’t want to make it harder.”
Rachel leaned forward, her grip tightening on Emma’s hands. “Oh, love. You could never bother me. I’ve let other things pull me away. But I see you.”
Emma’s lip trembled. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up.”
Rachel shook her head, pulling her closer. Her own hands shook as she held on.
Emma leaned in, tears shaking her small frame. Rachel’s own tears slipped down, dampening Emma’s hair.
When Emma finally pulled back, she whispered, “Uncle David said it’s okay if I don’t say everything perfectly. That it’s just about being there.”
Rachel’s throat tightened. She brushed Emma’s hair back, her hand lingering.
Emma hesitated, then gave a small smile.
Rachel kissed her forehead, letting silence be her answer.
Rachel closed Emma’s door and lingered, palm flat against the wood. Last night’s slammed door was still near, but this one had opened.
Downstairs, a spoon tapped a mug. Chris looked up as she entered. “Hey. How’s she doing?”
“Better. We talked. She’s been carrying more than I realized.”
Rachel poured tea, cupping the mug with both hands. “She said she didn’t want to bother me.”
Chris covered her hand. “She’s not the only one carrying too much.”
A weary smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like you’re about to tell me to give myself some grace.”
“Well. You’ve been trying to hold everything together—for everyone.”
She traced a pale ring on the table. “But I missed it, Chris.
“She turned to David because he could help her in that moment. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means she had someone else she could trust. And that’s not a bad thing.”
His words settled between them.
“She’s so much like Mum sometimes,” Rachel murmured.
“How do you mean?”
“The way she asks questions. Mum did that—found meaning everywhere.”
“Emma’s got her spark. And you’ve got your Mum’s stories.”
Rachel brushed her finger along the tea ring. “I don’t know if I could ever tell them the way she did.”
“You don’t have to. You’ll tell them in your way. And Emma? She’ll find hers.”
Rachel exhaled. She looked at the marmalade jar, its sticky rim catching the light.
The house breathed around her. Shadows softened. The kettle ticked as it cooled. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked—Emma moving in her room. Rachel wondered if she might still write that letter.
For once, the silence felt less like weight. More like space.
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.