We Know The Price We Pay

5. November. 2277 - Hadley Anne Branson

It's nights like these where I desperately wish Derek were here with me.

Though I know they probably should be asleep by now, our oldest two daughters are in their room, playing with a Ouija Board, trying to startle each other. I'm not going to make them go to school tomorrow, even if I should. Their little brother is in his and their little sister's room, reading, and their little sister, my youngest, is asleep on my bed, curled up next to our little old lady cat, Corinne. It would be perfect if only their father were here with me, but he's gone, again, and supposedly 'indefinitely put into combat' if Lyons can be believed. I had him back for a little over a month, and he's been taken from me again. It hurts more and more every time.

Then again, maybe I wouldn't mind so much if not for the damn test in my hands with its happy little blue plus sign.

Six, nearly seven years come February since we had our last baby. Two years since August we lost our...eighth, and after only two months. I...if we lose our ninth before he...I –

"Mommy? I need help."

Emmett. Tossing the test in the trash, I push open the doors of the master bathroom only to sigh when I see my eight year old son rubbing his head and sitting on the edge of my bed looking embarrassed. A simple press of my hand to his forehead and it's clear why. I guess he won't be going to school tomorrow either.

"Did you throw up?" I gently ask him, taking one of his hands when he nods and hops back down to the floor. "Where?"

"In the kitchen," He mumbles. "I was going to get orange juice, but I threw up on the floor."

"It's alright," I say, lightly messing with his long curly hair. "Everyone gets sick sometimes."

I almost start crying when he tightly hugs me but I can't, for his sake. Tiredly rubbing at my eyes – distracting him from any hint of it – I finally gently pry him off of me and instead just hold one of his hands and follow him down the hall and down the stairs. Shuffling his feet, I turn around when we reach the stairs and slowly walk down backwards, helping him down little by little. Soon as we reach the bottom and to the first floor, I scoop him up as best I can, harder and harder by the day with him being eight and far from a baby like the...

"Hey," I tell him, setting him down on the kitchen table and setting my hands to his shoulders. "You've just got a bit of a bad cold. Give it at most a week, and you'll feel all better."

He weakly nods. "Can I still have orange juice?"

"Of course, Em," I say, affectionately ruffling his hair. "Just give me a few minutes."

He smiles a little and I smile back at him before quickly dodging into the laundry room to grab a towel, careful to step around the bile which, for how embarrassed he seems, is only a little. Filling a pot on the sink and drenching the towel in it with a more than necessary spill of soap, the moment I'm sure it'll sweep it up quickly, I cut the water and toss it down on the floor over it. Emmett giggling a little when I mop the floor with the towel under my feet makes me feel a little better. Something about the way he smiles and giggles is always so sweet and...he really is so much like my grandmother. Their nonna.

May and Lissy are the only ones of them who really got to know her, didn't they?

No, I...I can't dwell on that. Or any of this. I –

"Cleaning the floor on a towel is like skating," Emmett hums, shaking out his long and messy curls. "I want to go skating again soon. Do you think I'll be able to teach Ada to skate?"

"Depends," I reply, giving him a small smile and sweeping up the rest of the bile with the towel. "Give me a minute to start running this in the washer."