Married Before Midnight by Sienna Quinn - Chapter 21

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Married Before Midnight


Chapter 21: The Weight of Goodbye


The house on Maplewood Lane had always been filled with warmth—the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the hum of laughter, the quiet strength of Henry Carter’s presence, even as illness confined him to bed. But now, the silence was suffocating. Eleanor stood in the doorway of their bedroom, her fingers trembling against the doorframe.


The sheets were still rumpled, the indentation of Henry’s body barely faded. She had known this day would come—had braced herself for it in stolen moments of solitude—but nothing could have prepared her for the hollow ache in her chest. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. He had been her anchor, the quiet force behind her dreams, the man who had whispered "You’re stronger than you think" every time doubt crept in. Now, the weight of his absence pressed down on her like a physical thing. Olivia, ever the eldest, stood beside her mother, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She had spent years being the family’s pillar, the one who held them together when the world threatened to pull them apart. But this—this was different. The man who had taught her to knead dough with patience, who had smiled through the pain when she brought him her first burnt attempt at bread—was gone. She swallowed hard, her throat burning. "I have to be strong," she told herself. But for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she could be.


Hannah sat on the edge of the couch, her sharp mind unusually blank. She had always been the strategist, the one who could outthink any problem. But grief didn’t bend to logic. Her father had been the one who encouraged her sharp tongue, who had laughed when she out-debated him.


Now, the memory of his laughter echoed in the silence, and she dug her nails into her palms just to feel something other than the numbness spreading through her. Charlotte, usually so full of fire, curled into herself on the window seat, her knees pulled to her chest. She had always been the most like Henry—stubborn, passionate, unafraid to fight for what she loved. But now, the fight had drained out of her. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the world outside move on as if nothing had changed. "How can they not know?" she thought bitterly. "The best man in the world is gone." Lillian and Emily, the twins, clung to each other on the stairs, their tear-streaked faces mirror images of sorrow. At seven, death was a concept they couldn’t fully grasp, but the absence was undeniable.


Lillian, usually so composed, hiccuped through quiet sobs, while Emily—bright, mischievous Emily—stared at the floor, her small hands clenched into fists. "Daddy promised to teach me how to ride a bike," she whispered, and the unfairness of it all made Lillian cry harder. Lucas stood in the corner of the room, his jaw tight. He had been part of the family for only a year, but Henry had treated him like a son from the first day. The man had given him a home, a name, a place to belong. Now, Lucas looked at the shattered pieces of the Carter women and made a silent vow. "I won’t let them fall." He wasn’t Henry, but he would be their shield—for the bakery, for the family, for the legacy Henry had left behind. The days blurred together in a haze of funeral arrangements and quiet mourning. Friends and neighbors brought casseroles and condolences, but the Carters moved through it all like ghosts. Eleanor forced herself to keep baking, her hands moving on muscle memory alone.


The Sweet Beginnings bakery had to survive—Henry would have wanted that. One evening, as the sisters gathered in the kitchen, Olivia finally broke the silence. "We can’t let them win," she said, her voice raw but steady. "Not Thompson, not Brenda, not anyone. Dad wouldn’t want us to give up." Hannah nodded, her eyes glinting with something fiercer than grief. "We’ll find another way. We always do." Charlotte wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Together." Lillian and Emily, still too young to understand the full weight of loss but old enough to understand love, reached for their sisters’ hands. Eleanor looked at her daughters, at Lucas standing tall behind them, and felt the first flicker of warmth in days.


They were broken, but they were still standing. And that, she realized, was Henry’s final gift to them—the unshakable knowledge that love didn’t die with the person who gave it. As the moon rose over Maplewood, the Carter women held each other close, their grief a shared weight. The road ahead was uncertain, but they would walk it together.