Chapter 7 - The Aftermath
Luke moved with terrifying speed.
Before my knees could hit the hardwood floor, he had crossed the foyer, caught me under my arms with his free hand, and guided my collapsing body gently back against his chest.
He didn't care about the mud on his jeans or the mess in the hallway. He slid down the wall until we were both sitting on the floor of the foyer, Jonah cradled safely between us, my head resting heavily against his shoulder.
I wept.
It wasn't a quiet, dignified cry. It was the loud, violent, wracking sobs of a woman who had reached the absolute end of her physical and emotional reserves. I cried for my aching body, for my ruined peace, for my hungry baby, and for the sheer, suffocating violation of having my sanctuary invaded while I was at my most vulnerable.
Luke held me tight, his chin resting against the top of my head, his hand rubbing slow, firm circles into my back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again, his own voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Nat. I should have been here. I should have checked my phone. The pharmacy took twenty minutes, and then I saw the line at the grocery store and I just thought you were resting... I should have known she’d try something like this."
"They... they took him out of my arms, Luke," I sobbed into his damp jacket, my hand clutching his lapel. "I told her no, and she just took him..."
"I know," Luke choked out, his grip on me tightening. "I know, baby. It will never happen again. I swear to you on my life, she will never step foot inside this house again."
We sat on the cold floor for nearly twenty minutes until my sobs quieted into small, shuddering breaths.
Jonah had stopped crying too; the familiar sound of his parents' voices and the rhythmic rise and fall of Luke’s chest had finally lulled him into a state of quiet exhaustion.
"Let's get you upstairs," Luke said softly, kissing my temple. "Can you walk?"
"I think so," I whispered.
He stood up first, holding Jonah securely, then extended his arm to help me pull myself up. Every muscle in my legs screamed in protest, but Luke supported almost all my weight, wrapping his arm around my waist as he guided me slowly up the carpeted stairs toward our bedroom.
Our bedroom was the only room in the house the family hadn't managed to completely ruin. It was warm, dark, and quiet.
Luke helped me sit down on the edge of the plush mattress, then carefully handed Jonah back to me. The moment my son felt my skin, he latched on with a ferocious, desperate hunger, his tiny fingers clutching at my shirt as he finally got the milk he had been crying for over two long hours.
I leaned back against the pillows, closing my eyes as the relief washed over me.
Luke didn't linger. He walked into the master bathroom, turned on the hot water in the garden tub, and began filling it with Epsom salts and lavender oils. Then he walked out of the room, leaving me in peace.
Ten minutes later, I heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner running downstairs.
Then the sharp spray of disinfectant.
Then the clatter of dirty dishes being dragged out of the sink and loaded into the dishwasher.
May you like
Luke wasn't just cleaning the house; he was scrubbing it clean of every trace, every scent, and every footprint his family had left behind.
By the time Jonah finished nursing and fell into a deep, milky stupor on my chest, the house below us was completely, utterly quiet once again.
