Chapter Ten – Holding On [Narrated]

Welcome back to Holding On.

Last time, we stayed close to Lily—her breath slowing, her family gathering. Rachel stood steady. David finally arrived. The room held silence and lavender and the weight of a long goodbye.

The chapter closed with a whisper, and the quiet that follows.

Now, we turn to those left behind.

This chapter belongs to David. To the things left unsaid between a son and his father. To guilt worn thin. To grief carried awkwardly. And to the slow reach toward something more honest.

It doesn’t come easily.

But in the space between a cuppa gone cold and a ladder left leaning, something begins to shift.

Still holding on. Just from a different place.

Chapter Ten

David stood at the edge of the gathering, fidgeting with his collar. The suit felt too tight, too formal—like it belonged to someone else.

Mum would’ve laughed at him.

He could almost hear her teasing: David, love, you look like you’re interviewing for a government job.

The sky hung low and grey, a blanket of clouds heavy with drizzle.

Typical. Mum would’ve hated it. She always said a bit of sunshine could make even the hardest days bearable. But today, the gloom fit—draping over everything like a weight.

His gaze drifted to Rachel, standing steady beside their dad. She was a quiet, unshakable presence.

Ralph sat hunched in his wheelchair, a blanket tucked around his frail legs. His hands trembled faintly. The man who used to patch a roof, rewire a lamp, or coax a spluttering engine back to life with a few tools and a muttered “Let’s see”—now looked like he couldn’t lift the cup in front of him.

This wasn’t him. Not the dad David grew up with.

For most of David’s life, Ralph had been the one who just knew how to fix things. Watching him shrink inside a hospital blanket made David feel like a boy again. Powerless.

The cancer had moved faster than any of them could keep up with. Rachel had taken charge—appointments, updates, decisions.

And David had let her. It was easier that way, to believe she had it under control. She usually did.

But now, watching Ralph drift into silence, he felt the weight of his absence settle like a stone.

I wasn’t there for Mum either. And now I’m doing it again.

He looked at Rachel. She was speaking softly to their dad, her hand resting on his shoulder. Steady. Always steady.

And him? Still orbiting. Still useless.

His throat tightened. He dropped his gaze to the wet grass. The drizzle had made it slick, the ground soft underfoot. He clenched his fists.

I have to do something. I can’t just stand here.

But even as the thought formed, it felt hollow.

He wasn’t like Rachel—calm under pressure, built for this.

He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “Mum would’ve had a lot to say about the flowers,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Rachel looked up. Their eyes met. He braced for a rebuke, but her expression softened.

“She’d have said they’re too sombre,” she said. “She’d have wanted something brighter.”

David swallowed, the knot in his chest tightening. Her calm only sharpened his guilt.

“I should’ve... I don’t know,” he said, gesturing toward their dad. “I should’ve been here more.”

Rachel tilted her head. “You’re here now,” she said simply.

He shook his head. The words weren’t enough. But she didn’t press. She turned back to Ralph, her hand resting on his shoulder.

David took a shaky breath. And then—he stepped forward.

For once, he didn’t stay on the sidelines.

The low hum of conversation filled the hall—a blur of hushed voices and the occasional clink of glass.
The air felt thick, the kind of grief that made people speak softly, as if volume alone might tip someone over the edge.

David stood near the doorway, holding a glass of something amber. Whiskey, maybe.
He hadn’t chosen it for the taste—it was something to hold. A prop.
But even that small weight unmoored him.
Letting go felt like he might drift away.

Across the room, Rachel moved through the crowd with the kind of ease he’d never managed.
She stopped to greet Aunt Carol, lingered by a few cousins, then made her way to the kids.
Her movements were fluid, her voice steady.
She looked unshakeable—like she’d been built for this.

David watched her, guilt and admiration tightening in his chest.
She made it look effortless—but he knew better.
She’d done everything—the arrangements, the updates, the condolences.
She hadn’t stopped.

Aunt Carol appeared beside him, eyes puffy, cheeks damp.
She reached out and patted his arm.

“Rachel’s been amazing, hasn’t she?” she said, voice thick.
“Holding everything together.”

David forced a smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She’s good at that.”

After a pause, he added, half-laughing,
“I’m just making sure there’s enough prawn vol-au-vents to go around.”

The joke fell flat.
Aunt Carol gave him the kind of sad smile people use
when they don’t know what else to say—and moved on.

He watched her retreat, the ache in his chest spreading.

Rachel was crouched beside Ralph’s wheelchair now.
He looked smaller than he had this morning, his blanket pulled high, his eyes glassy.
David couldn’t hear what Rachel was saying, but the way she touched his arm said enough.

And then there was him.
Just there.
Taking up space.

What am I even doing here?

The thought jabbed him.
He swallowed, hard. The lump didn’t budge.

He didn’t know how to help.
Didn’t know how to be like Rachel—someone who stepped in without needing permission.

She’d always done that.

And he? He let her.
Because it was easier.
Because she was better at it.
Because he didn’t know how not to.

David looked down at the glass, the liquid catching the light.

For a moment, he thought about setting it down.
About walking over.
About asking what he could do.

But it fizzled.
Doubt slid back in, old and familiar.

He took a sip instead.
The burn did nothing to dull the ache.

David pushed through the double doors into the cold.
The chill hit like a slap. He breathed in; the crisp air bit at his throat.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he walked until the muffled hum of voices was just that—muffled.
Only leaves rustled and wind whistled softly through the garden.

He paced along the edge, his breath fogging the cold.
The knot in his chest cinched tighter, heavier now that he was alone.
Away from Rachel.

Why does she always have to push? Always dig?
Why can’t she just let me handle it?

He stopped and leaned against the cold stone wall, tipping his head back to a sky veiled in cloud.
No stars. Just damp grey pressing in.

Typical.

A sound escaped him—closer to disbelief than humor.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

The lie curdled as soon as he said it.
He hadn’t been fine in months.
But Rachel? She was the last person he could say that to.

The door creaked open.
He didn’t need to turn. Of course she’d follow him.

“You left pretty quick,” she said, cautious, testing the air.

He kept his eyes skyward as her footsteps crunched closer.
She stopped just short of him.
Silence stretched.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said at last.
Her voice was quiet, but firm.
“Shutting everyone out. Pretending you’re okay.”

He exhaled, sharp.
“I’m not pretending. I just don’t see the point in... in picking it apart. None of it changes anything.”

Rachel stepped closer, arms folded against the cold.
“Maybe not. But talking helps. Letting people in helps.”

“Yeah? And how’s that working for you?”

It came out sharper than he meant—but he didn’t take it back.

“You’re running yourself ragged. Holding everyone together like it’s your job.
I don’t think you even realize you’re falling apart.”

Her eyes narrowed. But she didn’t flinch.

“I know I’m falling apart,” she said, voice tight.
“But I’d rather fall apart doing something than just stand there watching.”

The words didn’t sting.
They landed.

He looked at her—really looked.
The exhaustion in her face. The tension in her shoulders.
She wasn’t holding it together. Not really.
She was barely hanging on.

The fight drained out of him.
His shoulders dropped, heavy as wet laundry.

“I don’t know how to do this, Rach,” he said, barely audible.
“I don’t know how to be… what everyone needs me to be.”

She didn’t smile. But something in her eyes unknotted.

“You don’t have to be everything,” she said.
“Just… be here. That’s enough.”

He exhaled, and the tightness shifted—not gone, just bearable.

He nodded, gaze lowered. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, then stepped away.

“Dad’s in the lounge. You should check on him.
He could use the company.”

He hesitated.
The thought of facing Ralph tugged at the calm she’d helped him find.

But he didn’t argue.
Just turned toward the doors.

David found his dad slumped in a corner of the lounge, hands wrapped around a cup of tea he wasn’t drinking.

The low hum of conversation faded into the background, leaving a stillness between them—thick and familiar.

Ralph Jackson had once been the man who could fix anything.
A leaky pipe. A loose banister.
A milk float that wouldn’t start on a frozen morning.
He could turn his hand to anything—never hurried, never rattled.

Now, he just looked lost.
Like a man who didn’t know where to start.

David sank into the chair beside him.
They sat in silence, the kind that had always come easily between them.

Ralph had never been one for talk.
Most of their time together had been shoulder to shoulder—trading tools, sharing quiet.
Words had always been optional.

Eventually, Ralph spoke.

“Never did finish that shed roof,” he muttered, still staring into the tea. “Had the ladder set up and everything. Then things went south.”

David glanced over.
His dad’s face looked older now—creased and heavy, carved by grief and time.
The tea had gone cold. Ralph held it like it might warm him anyway.

“Mum used to joke you spent more time in that shed than with us,” David said quietly.
“Said if she wanted to find you, she’d have to send up a flare.”

A faint smile tugged at Ralph’s mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Aye. That shed was my quiet place. Built it when Rachel was just a baby. Hadn’t a clue what I was doing, but it turned out alright. Your mum thought I were barmy.”

David chuckled.
“She didn’t just think it—she told us. ‘Your dad’s bought a load of wood, and now he’s out there pretending to be Bob the Builder.’”

Ralph gave a hoarse laugh—short, but real.
“She said that, did she?”

“All the time. But she loved it. Said it were the only place you ever really relaxed.”

Ralph’s gaze drifted beyond him.

“She’d bring me a cuppa,” he murmured. “Didn’t say a word. Just set it on the bench and went back inside. She always knew when I needed quiet. Understood me better than anyone.”

David swallowed.
The pressure in his chest rose like steam.
He wasn’t used to this version of his dad—unguarded, uncertain.

“You were good together,” he said. “Better than most.”

Ralph nodded.
His eyes glistened.

“She made everything better, son. Even the bad days. Especially the bad days.”

David looked away, blinking hard.

“You still have us,” he said. “Me and Rachel. We’re not going anywhere.”

Ralph set the cup down with a trembling hand.

“I know,” he said, barely audible. “And I’m grateful. But it’s not the same, is it?”

David didn’t answer.
He stared at his own hands—rough and calloused like his dad’s—and thought about the roof.
The simple things they could still fix.

“I’ll get the ladder sorted,” he said after a moment.
“I’ll finish the roof. You’ll see.”

Ralph looked at him.
For the first time in days, there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

Pride, maybe.
Or just recognition.

“Aye,” he said softly. “You’ll do a grand job.”

They sat in silence again.
But this time, it felt lighter.

David leaned back, letting the quiet settle.

Fixing the roof wouldn’t fix everything.
But it was a start.

By the time the reception had thinned out, David stood by the window, watching rain streak down the glass in steady sheets.
Muted conversation hummed behind him, but the room felt distant, like he was standing on the edge of it.

His reflection stared back at him in the darkened pane—
someone tired,
someone out of place.
The lines around his eyes looked deeper under the harsh lights,
his shoulders slumped as if carrying something invisible but impossibly heavy.
He didn’t quite recognize this version of himself.

Across the room, Rachel moved with quiet efficiency—checking on Dad, gathering empty cups, murmuring farewells to lingering guests.
But now and then, she paused, one hand resting on a chair or the edge of a table, like she needed the briefest moment to steady herself.

Her gaze drifted toward David.
She held it a few seconds longer this time, her expression unreadable—something between exhaustion and… something else.
She gave him a small smile.

He tried to return it,
but the effort felt thin.
Like a thread stretched too tight.

He turned back to the window,
hands buried deep in his pockets.

She’d taken over everything.
Like always.
Even as kids, Rachel had been the one to smooth over fights, untangle lost shoes and forgotten lunches, patch scraped knees.
She held it all together while he lingered on the sidelines.

And now?
Arrangements. Logistics. The kids. Dad.
He’d let her handle it—because she was better at it.
Because he didn’t know where to begin.
And maybe, if he was honest, because it was easier.

But the distance between them felt too wide now.
Like a bridge had collapsed,
and neither of them knew how to rebuild it.

The rain blurred his reflection,
rivulets distorting his face until it no longer looked like him.

Something between us is broken, he thought.
And I don’t know how to fix it.

He remembered being seven,
standing in the kitchen while Rachel quietly took the blame for one of their mum’s china figurines he’d knocked off the shelf.
She’d shrugged off the scolding and winked at him later, like it was nothing.

But this—this silence between them—
felt heavier than any blame she could take.

He clenched his fists in his pockets.
Thought about the shed roof.
About Rachel’s tired smile.
About Dad, staring into a cup of cold tea.

So many scattered pieces.
And no idea where to start.

But instead of freezing again,
he exhaled slowly.
The tightness in his chest loosened—just enough to move.

He turned from the window, something settling in him.
His gaze found Rachel.
She was still crouched beside Dad, her hand on his arm, speaking in low tones.
She looked up, caught him watching.
Her expression softened.
Weary—but warm.

He nodded.
No words—just something shared.

Then he stepped toward the coat rack and grabbed his jacket.

Outside, the rain kept falling—heavy, relentless.
But when he stepped into it,
the cold sting felt bracing, not oppressive.

One thing at a time, he told himself.

The roof could wait.
But not forever.

Tonight, he’d start by showing up.

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