The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Twenty-Nine

"No, ma'am. Not recently."

"When was the last time you did?"

"When we arrived earlier this evening, ma'am," he answered. A chill prickled my skin when I realized that I knew where he was. I looked over my shoulder up the grand staircase. "Did you need help finding him?"

"No," I said. "Thank you, it's alright."

With nervous energy, I ran up the stairs and through the ballroom, hoping I was wrong. But I wasn't. I could hear him before I had made it down the hall.

I stopped in the doorway when I saw him. He sat on the floor, leaned against the side of the bed where the sheets were undone, folded over with his head hanging between his knees. His body wracked with his sobs. "Augustine."

I ran and dropped to my knees in front of him. His fingers were tangled in his hair so tight his knuckles were white. His quick, ragged breaths continued. He was going to hyperventilate if he continued like this.

"I need you to breathe. Please," I begged him. "Look at me." His eyes lifted to mine in a glare. "I know you hate me, but you have to breathe."

I inhaled and exhaled audibly. His hiccupping slowed as he tried to follow my breathing the best he could. After a few moments, his breaths, while still choppy, calmed to discernable inhales and exhales.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"She was ill," he seethed. "And in pain—so much pain. I would never have—" a sob kept him from finishing his sentence.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

After a few more breaths, he leaned up, letting his arms relax atop his knees. He closed his eyes and let out his next breath through pursed lips.

His hair was disheveled from his grip, his brow stitched in pain, his eyes red and wet. I had never seen him so vulnerable and raw. I was finally witnessing the version of himself he had barricaded beneath layers of detachment, locked as deep down as he could. This what I thought I wanted. Now all I wanted to do was take everything back.

When his eyes opened again, he looked down his nose at me with a scowl then looked away. I couldn't tell if he was mad at me or mad at himself.

"She was ill," he repeated. "And not the kind of ill where there's hope."

"What did she have?" I asked as gently as I could.

His brow furrowed. "Cystic fibrosis."

I had heard of it before, but I wasn't sure of the details. Something to do with malfunctioning glands and chronic respiratory issues. What I knew for sure was that it was incurable, it was hereditary, and that most with the condition were lucky to see forty. My heart sank. "So . . . So you knew before . . ."

"We had children?" he completed my question with a self-deprecating smile. "Yes."

I didn't know what to say.

"Everything between us happened so fast. She didn't tell me. Not until we knew about Matthew and by then it was too late. We were too in love. With each other and with him." His voice was low, his eyes welling with tears. "I should have known. We were never around people, never went anywhere really . . . but I thought nothing of it. All I wanted in the world was to be with her."

I wasn't sure if he was telling me or if he was simply ruminating. His guilt was so palpable, I felt it too.

He sniffled. "I brought children into this world, knowing it could shorten her life—knowing if it didn't, they'd lose her all the same," he said. He looked me in the eyes, his face still twisted between guilt and disgust. "How dare you tell me to be a better father . . . when the only thing I've done is hurt them."