A Letter From The Kids
Rain poured without mercy. Thick drops hammered against the sea of black umbrellas and the polished casket, but I didn’t move. None of us did.
Lady Isolde had been many things—stern, cold and strict but in the end, she was just a woman being lowered into the earth.
Came from soil, back to soil.
The twins clung to Jo. Their little hands balled into her jacket, their faces buried deep. I heard Larry sniffle and ask, “Is she with Mommy now?” and Jo—God bless her—just smiled at them and comforted them, saying mummy is still here, but their grandmother is with Jesus now. Her eyes glistening as she looked up at the sky. It's good she was here, I don't think I would be able to comfort the kids right now.
I stood alone. No umbrella. No coat. Just the biting sting of rain on my face and the slow creep of mud swallowing my shoes.
Tradition demanded formality—lace veils, tailored suits, carefully chosen words. But everything about today felt wrong.
Remi should’ve been here.
She would’ve hated the ceremony, she loved lady Isolde, she was like a grandmother to Remi. Remi would be pained and hurt if she was here.
She should’ve been standing right next to me, her hand in mine and I would have held her close as she cried.
Instead, she was still unconscious in a hospital bed.
And somehow… life kept going.
The priest closed his book. People muttered polite words. Some lingered with looks of pity, but most walked away.
I didn’t.
I stood there staring at the grave with vacant eyes.
She had died that night. Never waking up again after the heart attack. Gone with the wind. The rage inside of me was still there and I wanted to hurt someone so bad but I also wanted to drink to stupor and drown in my pain.
But I didn't.
“Goodbye grandmother. I wished I had said it properly.” I bowed my head and turned on my heels.
I got into the car, soaking wet. My suit clung to me like it was trying to hold me together, but my hands just rested on my lap.
I couldn’t move.
Jo sat beside me in silence. She didn’t force words. She knew.
The twins were buckled in the back seat. Too quiet.
I hadn’t said a word to them all day. Not really.
And they hadn’t asked much—just the same question they asked every day.
“Is Mommy coming home tomorrow?”
And I’d lie.
“She’s okay.”
“She’s resting.”
“She’ll be back soon.”
But the weight of those lies was starting to kill me.
Jo looked over at me. I didn’t meet her eyes.
“Rowan,” she said softly, “it’s going to be alright.”
I wanted to believe her. I did. But how do you believe in anything when everything you love keeps getting torn away?
It felt like my karma. No. It is my karma for what I have done.
I couldn’t lift my arms. My fingers wouldn’t stretch toward the steering wheel. The grief, the guilt, the constant noise in my head—it froze me.
“I think… we’ll take a cab,” Jo whispered after a while. “Get some rest, Rowan.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a white envelope. Quietly placed it on the dashboard.
“From the kids,” she said. “I didn’t want to give it to you today but… it’s time.”
She stepped out and opened the back door, helping the twins out.
But Larry paused. He reached back in and touched my shoulder—just like Remi used to when I was spiraling.
Then Laura leaned in from the other side and wrapped her small arms around me, her cheek pressing to my neck.
“Everything will be alright, Daddy,” she whispered.
And that... broke me.
I turned, barely holding it together. Looked at her.
And I smiled. For the first time in days.
Because in her eyes, I saw Remi.
That fire. That fight. That stubborn light that refused to go out.
I touched both of their faces gently.
“Be good, okay?” I said. My voice cracked.
They nodded.
And Jo took their hands and walked away.
I watched them go, every step like a silent punch to the chest.
Then I leaned back in my seat.
The white envelope still sat there.
Untouched.
I stared at it for a long while, letting the silence stretch. Letting the ache in my chest throb against the beat of the rain outside.
Eventually, I reached for it.
My fingers hesitated at first—because something in me knew whatever was inside wasn’t from a lawyer.
I tore it open.
And froze.
Crayon. A drawing. Stick figures. One with wild red hair. One with black dots for eyes. Two smaller ones with lopsided smiles and wobbly legs.
I unfolded the second paper.
Lined sheet. Messy handwriting.
Laura’s.
"Dear Daddy,"
"Jo didn’t tell us so don't get mad at her. We heard you on the phone. It’s Mum. She’s still sleeping but not the normal kind. It's the kind where you go and meet Jesus or you remain hereI cried a lot. I didn’t want to tell you because you’d cry too. But Larry prayed. He said God listens when we whisper it in our hearts. And I think he’s right because I felt warm after. I don’t know if that means Mum is coming back. But I think you’re sad. More than us. So I wanted to write this. To remind you you’re not alone."
I blinked. My throat felt raw.
The page continued.
"I remember when Mum said you used to be cold like an ice cube and she had to melt you. It was funny. But now I think you’re sad ice again. But we’re here. And we’ll melt you again. Even if it takes forever. Please don’t cry too much. You’ll get a headache. Please eat, even if it’s yucky hospital food."
There was a bit of scribble after that. A smudge of pink glitter.
Then Larry’s writing kicked in—more crooked, more stubborn.
"Hi Dad. Laura said I had to write too. So I am."
"I miss Mum. I prayed like she said. I also tried not to cry so you’d be proud. But I still cried."
"I know you want to break things. I heard you once in your room. But don’t. Because that’s bad. Just breathe. I tried breathing like Mum taught me when I got angry. It kinda works. A little."
I couldn’t breathe.
I gripped the paper so hard it crinkled. My vision blurred and one, single tear slipped down my cheek.
The last part was written in both of their handwriting.
"We love you. We’re proud of you. And we know you’ll be okay. You’re our dad."
"You’re strong."
"And you’ll bring her back."
I let the paper fall into my lap, unable to hold it.
My kids.
My babies.
I hadn’t realized they were watching me this closely. I thought I was protecting them. Lying to shield them. But they had already seen through it.
And instead of needing comfort, they were trying to comfort me.
Me.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands tangled in my hair.
And I cried.
Not loud. Not broken. Just… silently.
Tears rolled freely as I pressed my palms to my face, shaking from the weight of everything.
I missed her. God, I missed Remi.
Her voice. Her laugh. The way she used to call me out when I was being difficult. The way she smiled at our kids like they were miracles.
I had been cruel to her in the past. I had made unforgivable mistakes. But this… losing her like this…
It was a punishment.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
The envelope sat on the dash now, empty. But the letter was still in my hand. Crinkled. Smudged. Sacred.
I folded it carefu
lly and placed it in the glove compartment like it was made of glass.
Then I sat back.
Closed my eyes.
And whispered into the silence.
“I’ll bring her back.”
Even if it killed me.
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