what do we do now? [muke af]

introduction

introduction

The blinds are closed tight, yet light still finds its way into Luke's bedroom. He can't call it Michael's room anymore. The older boy hasn't lived between their white sheets in ten years, and, yeah, it still hurts every day.

Luke opens his hazy blue eyes to the bedroom that seems far too empty. He can hear Tab's alarm clock going off for the fifth time. At a mere eleven years of age, she acts like her jailed father—staying asleep far past her sixth alarm.

The blonde rolls from his bed, ignoring the pang of hurt in his chest when Michael's side remains untouched. His knees crack as he stands up, he stretches his arms out wide.

When Michael was sentenced to a fifteen year sentence, Luke knew it was going to hurt. He was more than aware that everything was going to hurt him and the (then) eight month year old in his arms.

It's the little things that always hurt him the most. It's the half empty bed. It's their closet half untouched. It's getting Tab to school without a kiss on the head from her other father. It's eating breakfast alone. It's Michael's car in the garage gathering ten years of dust.

When the judge called guilty, half of Luke's heart was taken.

Luke ran water over his face, hoping the empty feeling gathering in his veins would wash away with the dripping water. He did his morning routine, everything was a simple routine.

By the time he made it down the creaking wooden stairs in too tight jeans, his little girl was already well into her breakfast. She looked up, glowing green eyes causing Luke to crack a smile.

Tab was his pride and joy since Michael's been gone.

"Morning, Dad," she greeted him. Another routine.

He walked past her, running a hand through her hair to mess up the dark blonde waves. "Morning. Ready for Monday?"

"Eh," she responded. Luke figured an eleven-year-old should be more excited for the fifth grade, but he had far too much on his plate to truly worry.

"It's gonna be great, Sweetie. We need to get going, though." He grabbed a cold, caffeinated beverage from the fridge, laying it out to chill as he checked over the calendar. "I'm seeing your father today, do you want me to tell him anything?"

She stood from the table, bringing her ceramic bowl into the sink full of dirty dishes. "I don't think anything new from last week. Just the usual." Tab leant down, grabbing her floral backpack from the floor of their kitchen. She started to go through, making sure she had everything needed.

"You have piano lessons after school, so make sure you have your book," he reminded her. His long fingers took the keys from the hooks against the wall. Once again, ignoring the pang of sadness when he saw Mike's keys right where they have been for over three thousand days. That's a lot of days wasted.

For a while, Luke felt insane. He was losing his brain, his friends, his family. He was losing everything. He saw the looks thrown in his direction when they saw the infamous Clifford last name.

Luke couldn't begin to imagine what his little Tab has gone through and what more she'll go through. It's Michael's fault. It's Michael and his stupid mafia. It was the guns in their basement, it was the millions in their safe.

In the end, Luke told himself he should be glad Michael and all of his suspicious buddies got caught. It was time. Luke's voice wasn't loud enough, Mike never listened to the small blonde screaming out that he was done.

Luke is almost thirty two, he wants a bigger family, he wants his husband to see their daughter grow up. When he stood in that courthouse—Mike's last day of freedom—Tab was a tiny thing, barely big enough to open her eyes.

Now she picks out her clothes and makes her bed and discusses books with Luke over dinner. She can cook and she can run and she can solve multiplication tables. She's so much bigger, and Michael has missed out on that.

Luke wishes that after all this time he could stop feeling such anger towards his husband of fourteen years, his lover of eighteen years.