Free UNFORGETTABLE (Able Series Book 3) by Gigi Aceves Page B

asking, just like a good Marine.
    “This is a devastating loss. A loss that not only you and Tami feel, but the whole family as well. The moment that child was conceived, he or she was part of this family. My heart hurts for you and my daughter. I wish I could ease the pain, carry it perhaps and pass it to someone else when the pain hits me too, but it doesn’t work that way. Life goes on for the living. It’s unfortunate but true. It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. It’s something that happens that can’t be undone. Go through the pain head on, Brian, and take Tami with you. Don’t go in separate directions—fight through it together. I’m not here to pound on you to be strong, because if I were being honest, I’m ready to fall on my knees, myself. What I’m trying to say is, do it together.”
    All I can give him is a nod. He can take that nod however he wants to because I don’t have an answer—none at all.
    Clearing his throat he continues, “I told you the special bond she and I have is nothing compared to what you have. Use that connection, pull from it, squeeze every ounce of strength you can from it, because she’ll need it and she can only get it from you as she does the same thing for you.”
    He leaves, and I stay.
    Jake comes, talks, leaves, and I stay.
    Cody comes, talks, leaves, and I stay.
    I . . . stay.
    Sometimes, I wonder if it’s possible to forget. If at some point in my misery, something just snaps and the memory of the pain is all but gone. God, help me forget! I want to forget, to not hurt. I want to not hurt, to move on. I want to move on, to live. I want to live, for what. . . . I don’t know. How can I possibly help her when I’m lost in my own grief for the second time?
    Second time.
    I thought half of myself died when I lost my first. Now, I’m just dead. The emptiness I feel is indescribable. To others, this may seem like an obsession or misplaced grieving. They may say, how can I possibly have such a strong sense of loss for someone I haven’t met? But that’s exactly it, I don’t need to see or hold, kiss or touch either my babies to love them, because I just do. I don’t have to breathe them in, to watch their chest rise and fall, or to hear their cries to experience the excruciating sense of loss. I wish I were given the opportunity to do all those things; however, the only opportunity given me is to feel the emptiness that comes with losing someone along with the pain their memory brings.
    I let my tears and shoulders fall; I allow my knees and heart to give way, letting go of the ache for a little while. I convince myself a few seconds is all I need to grieve, but to be honest, it’s a lifetime of constant pain. I instinctively clutch my heart, wanting it not to feel as I’m willing my eyes not to cry.
    Then, I feel my mother’s arms on me. I hear her words of encouragement loud and clear, “Will it to go if you find yourself hanging onto the pain. You can fall apart, Son. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ll help you pick up the pieces, just as someday in God’s glorious time, you’ll help your child pick up the pieces, too. Such is the cycle of love.”
    Then, I feel something snap inside of me.
    I’m done hoping.
    I’m done dreaming.
    I’m done trying.
    I’m just done.
    Once again, I’m waving the white flag of surrender to fear.
    Giving in to the lies of the past.
    Granting power to the memories that haunt me.
    Forget?
    I will never forget.
    TAMI
    I refuse to count the days or remember what happened after my miscarriage. Brian comes and goes without uttering more than two one-syllable-words. He sleeps next to me, but I don’t feel his warmth, instead all I feel is pure coldness. I cook, he eats; I talk, he nods; he leaves for work, I stay home to think; and so goes our meek existence, post baby loss.
    I can’t hold it any longer. He can’t quit on us without telling me what’s going on. I haven’t even been given one explanation since he decided