~Sang~
It's been five years since I found the letter from the nine greatest loves of my life, telling me that they left me. With the letter clutched in my hand, I had sunk down to the floor and cried. My tears were enough to flood the immaculate house we'd been living in, two times over. Unfortunately, the flood of my tears did not carry me away, nor did it bring my loves back to me. I cried myself to sleep that night, on the floor of our beautiful kitchen, with their letter in my hand, a vice like grip on it. Afraid that if I let it go, they really would be gone.
When I woke up the next morning, I was determined to find out what happened to them. I didn't care that the letter told me not to look, they would do it for me; surely someone knew where they were. I managed to get dressed and choke down breakfast, before getting into my car and driving to Summerville. If anyone knew what happened to the boys, my money would be on Erica and Uncle.
The drive to Summerville was a long one, in which I only had my thoughts to occupy me, and they were not good ones. My mind kept coming back to the same question: why did they leave me? When I arrived at Erica's, she opened the door with a tear-streaked face, probably much like my own yesterday. When I asked her if she knew where the boys were, she told me that she had gotten a letter as well, and that she couldn't help me find them. She closed the door in my face, muffled crying from her and Jessica could be heard on the other side. Erica had always treated me like one of her own, ever since that first day at breakfast with Kota and Victor...for her to say that she couldn't help me...let's just say it didn't do anything to ease my pain.
Getting back in my car, the tears started to form again. I was able to push them back for the time being, I had a job to do, I had to find them, and breaking down again wouldn't help. I drove over to the diner to see Uncle locking up. It was still early in the day, and to see him closing the diner, was another piece of me breaking. I got out of my car and approached him, begging him to tell me anything he knew about the boys' whereabouts. His exact words were "I'm sorry little bird, I can't help you. Now don't come back." He got into his truck and drove off, leaving me numb.
It's a miracle I made it back to the house in one piece. I was numb, doing everything on autopilot. I walked back into our kitchen where I found the note, and sat at the island. If this was one of Luke's jokes, it sure as hell wasn't funny. I forced myself to eat again, knowing that if North were here, he'd be harping at me to eat healthy. That's what they told me, to stay safe and take care of myself. I would've given anything to hear my big grumpy bear yelling again, to hear any of them really. Unfortunately, eating didn't really help, I threw it all up about an hour later. I trudged back up to my room, determined to wait this out, this had to be some kind of Academy mission they couldn't tell me about, they'd be back in a few days, I knew it.
Apparently denial isn't just a river in Egypt, because for the next few days, I convinced myself that they were coming back. I ate healthy, I kept to my workouts, I kept the house in order, and on the fourth day of them being gone, I broke. I'd been feeling sick ever since they left, I did my best to kick it, but nothing worked. I decided to go see Dr. Roberts and see if he could help me, I knew that the boys wouldn't want me if I was feeling this poorly. In those days, I still had hope that they were coming back.
I arrived at the Academy hospital and asked to see Dr. Roberts. I suppose all of my trips there in the past made me familiar with the hospital staff, because they just directed me to his office. When I got there, the sight that greeted me wasn't a good one. Dr. Roberts had silent tears streaming down his face, a paper clutched in his hand. It was then that it hit me, the boys really were gone, and no one had any idea where they'd gone, or if they'd be back.
Dr. Roberts and I embraced each other, helping the other grieve their loss, but ultimately, it was him who ended up helping me. Once the tears dried up, we got down to the actual reason I came to the hospital. We ran a series of test, which all said that I was perfectly healthy. This stumped the good doctor, and he chose to run one more test that came back positive. I was pregnant. Three months, according to the ultrasound. I made it back to the house in a daze that I was becoming quite familiar with. I tried to eat but couldn't keep anything down. I tried to take care of myself, and ended up a blubbering mess on the kitchen floor instead. Soon enough I avoided the kitchen all together. I grabbed bottles of water and crackers, anything that didn't need to be cooked, and holed up in my room. The silence and loneliness came back like old friends. I wanted to believe that the boys were coming back, if not for me, then for the life growing inside of me...and then I remembered that they didn't know. They left before I found out. They left me, they didn't want me, why would they want my child?
I decided to keep the news of my pregnancy between me and the good doctor. He couldn't tell because of doctor/patient confidentiality; and I wouldn't tell, because by then I'd convinced myself that I was enough of a burden on the boys and their families. They wouldn't need to worry about me any longer. Sometimes I would wake up, and think that the previous three years of my life was just a dream, that the boys never came to save me, that I was still useless and alone. Then I'd remember the life growing inside me, and know that it wasn't a dream. Instead I began to think of it as a nightmare. The boys saved me, only to end up leaving me; I should've known they would. Everyone leaves.
One day, I had the misfortune of missing my doctor's appointment, too weak to get out of bed; Dr. Roberts came by the next morning. He let himself in with a spare key and found me huddled under the blankets of my bed in a comatose state, clutching their letter in my hand and staring off at the picture of the ten of us I kept on my nightstand. He begged me to tell him what was wrong, why I missed my appointment. I knew that if I opened my mouth for too long, I'd be a broken mess all over again. Holding out their note, I told him in the simplest terms, "They left me".
Dr. Roberts took the letter from my outstretched hand and skimmed it quickly, cursing the boys under his breath. He left my side and started rummaging throughout the room, I was too determined to burn a hole through the photo with my eyes, to track his movements. He came back to me a little while later with a change of clothes, and a bag that looked stuffed to the brim with my things. He made me shower and change, and soon we were leaving the house that I'd lived in with my loves for the past two years, but not before I grabbed that photo of the ten of us. No matter what happened between us, my child would know their fathers.
While we were driving, I asked Dr. Roberts where he was taking me, his answer was simply "home". When I asked him why he was doing this, he told me that the paper I saw him clutching that day at the hospital, was a note from Sean. It simply said, "Phil, Take care of Pookie. Sean." Not as many words as my letter, but still just as powerful, they still cared. But if they cared, then why did they leave? The next few months Phil took care of me, with help from the Toma team. Over the course of my pregnancy, those boys became family. They were the big brothers I never had, and Dr. Roberts, Phil, was the father I always wanted. They trusted me, and cared for me, and over time, they grew to know me almost as well as my boys did.
Christmas and New Year was hard, but we got past it, and on the fourteenth of February, they were there with me, holding my hands as I gave birth to twins. Turns out I had a little girl hiding behind her brother, he was protecting her, and I couldn't have been more proud. When I first got the chance to hold them, it amazed me how much of their fathers I saw in them. I easily knew who their birth fathers were, and decided to let them have a piece of their fathers that they could always carry with them. Their names.
My little boy, with his bright blue eyes, just like his father, I named Cole Joseph Sorenson. My little princess, with beautiful fire eyes like her father, I named Morgan Elizabeth Sorenson. They were what kept me from spiraling into depression, and I owed it to them, to give them the life they deserved. I loved my babies, and I loved my boys, but I had an obligation to these tiny little creations. So when the twins were six months, the Toma team and I packed up, and left South Carolina, disappearing in the night like the ghost I was.
We ended up in Reston, Virginia, a quiet place not far from the city, a half hour from DC. It was beautiful, and peaceful. It was a new start. We rented out a whole floor of condos, in one of the new buildings by the Metro, right in the heart of Reston, it was perfect. The twins and I were set up in our own apartment, with each of the boys on the same floor. We baby proofed the house, and the boys doted over the twins any chance they got. They never thought they'd be good with kids, but being the uncles to "two adorable little creatures" quickly changed their minds.
They each took turns watching them while I studied to become a nurse, and helped me celebrate every milestone the twins took. We became our own little family, and somehow, the hurt from the boys wasn't as bad. I made sure the twins knew who their fathers were, always showing them pictures, making sure they knew where they came from. As the years passed, they began to look more like their fathers every day. Cole's bright blue eyes, and curly brown hair made my heart ache for Gabriel. Seeing Morgan's fire eyes, with her long wavy brown hair made me cry for Victor. And when the twins both found an interest in music, my heart gave me the fiercest ache. I loved my babies, and I missed their fathers, but I made sure to put my hurt aside so that my babies knew they were loved. So every year, on this day, the seventeenth of August, the days my boys left me, I sit down with the twins, and tell them how I met their fathers, how we fell in love, and ultimately, how they left. I read them the letter the boys left me, my heart breaking each time, telling my loves how I failed them. I couldn't keep their daddies around, and we were alone because of me. The twins didn't care. Being the loving children that I raised them to be, they would wipe my tears and hold on to me really tight. Giving me all of the strength in their little bodies; giving me all the strength I'd need to make it to the next year. I loved my boys, but if I wanted to make it for our children, I had to be strong. I had to live my life without them.