Cora goes limp in my arms with a heart-wrenching sob. I don’t catch her before she falls—no, I let her fall, and I fall with her. Our legs buckle and we hit the floor, Cora in my lap, her face buried against my chest. I hold her so fucking tight I’m afraid I might break her, feeling her tears seep through my shirt and bleed into my skin. She clings to me, raining her own kisses along my torso in between her tears and hiccups, and I glide my fingers through her hair, down her back, letting her release.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her hair. “Always.”

She can pretend to hate me. If it diminishes even a fraction of her pain, she can fucking pretend all she wants.

But I know it’s love… it has to be, because if this isn’t love…

Then I’m certain it does not exist.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I walk down the long hallway, passing closed doors on either side of me. All of them are adorned with artwork, pretty wreaths, or homemade crafts. Most of the art is childlike, made by grandchildren and great grandchildren and displayed with pride.

My feet stop at the one door that is blank and empty. Cheerless.

Sad.

She doesn’t have any grandchildren. She doesn’t have anyone except for me, and I’m too much of a coward to visit her more than once a year.

I knock against the frame as I let myself in, spotting her across the small condo, watching television from the foot of her bed in a nightgown.

“Leave it by the door, Frank,” she says without looking away from the TV screen.

I swallow, taking hesitant steps inside the room. “It’s me, Mom.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink or flinch.

Holly Asher was a strong woman. Kind and soft in so many ways, yet there was always fight in her eyes. Her spirit burned bright with fierce protection for her family and love for those she deemed worthy.

My mother loved my father with the fire of a thousand suns, and he loved her back just the same. My childhood is riddled with vivid memories of them madly in love, kissing, chasing each other around the house, tickling, and dancing in the kitchen to Hootie and the Blowfish. I’d get embarrassed when my friends came over because I knew my parents would act like fools with their terrible dance moves and off-key singing. Mom would always try to pull me into the dance party and I’d run away, shouting, “You guys are so weird!” They would laugh and laugh, immune to my humiliation, and then they’d kiss, not giving a damn.

But they would fight, too. Oh, they would fight, and I’d hear them from the other side of the house in the middle of the night as I clutched the bed covers to my chin.

“You’re an idiot, Mark!”

“You drive me crazy, Hol!”