Emmy Girl

Emmy Girl

The house was still.

Richard stood in the kitchen; his fingers wrapped around a coffee mug that had long gone cold. Through the window above the sink, morning light filtered through the lace curtains—the ones Dorothy had hung forty years ago, insisting they made the room feel like a proper home. He had argued they were too fussy, but she insisted. Not because she was stubborn, but because she was usually right, and because making her happy had always been his greatest joy.

The mug trembled slightly in his hands. It was her favorite, the one with the faded cardinals she had bought at that little shop in Minnesota during an anniversary trip. Their thirty-fifth. He could still see her face as she had held it up, declaring it perfect, while he would tease her about collecting more dishes when their cabinets were already overflowing.

"You don't understand," she'd said, "This one has a story now."

Everything in this house had a story. Every photograph on the wall, every chip in the hardwood floors, the stain on the ceiling from the time the snow caused the roof to leak, and they'd laughed until they'd cried while mopping up the mess. Sixty-one years of stories, woven into the fabric of this house like threads in a tapestry. But now she was gone.

Richard set the mug down on the counter and moved to the living room, his steps slow and measured. His knees weren't what they used to be, but that hardly mattered now. Nothing much mattered anymore. The grandfather clock in the corner, another of Dorothy’s treasures, ticked steadily, marking time that suddenly felt both endless and terrifyingly finite.

He lowered himself into their love seat, positioning himself at the perfect angle to face Dorothy’s side. Looking toward her side table, he noticed a paperback mystery still resting where she had put it, a bookmark placed three-quarters through. She would never finish that story now. The thought hit him like a blow, and he had to close his eyes against the sting of tears.

"Pull yourself together, old man," he muttered.

The thing about losing someone after years together was that you didn't just lose that person. You lost half of every memory you'd made. He thought about their wedding day, that cold and snowy April afternoon in 1964, Dorothy was radiant in her mother's dress. He remembered the night their daughter, Emily was born, snow falling outside the hospital while Dorothy gripped his hand so tight that he thought his bones would break, He thought about the small moments, the Saturday morning pancakes, the days with the kids, the evening walks around the neighborhood, the way she kept everything in order. His heart was broken but he remembered it all. The weight was crushing.

The phone rang, shrill in the silence. Richard considered not answering, but he knew he had to. It was Emily again, checking on him for the third time today.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said, before she could speak.

"Dad." Her voice was thick, the way it had been all week. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," he lied, the same lie he had told her everyday. "Don't worry about me."

"The funeral home called. Everything is set for tomorrow at eleven. I can pick you up at ten, give us time to—"

"I remember. You told me."

A pause. "I know, Dad. I just... I want to make sure you're okay. Maybe I should come stay with you tonight. Scott can handle the kids."

"No need. I'm managing."

Another pause, longer this time. He could hear her struggling with what to say, how to help, what comfort to offer. But there was no comfort, not really. He knew she was grieving too—Dorothy had been her mother, her confidant, her friend.

"I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, Emmy girl."

After he hung up, Richard stood in the hallway, staring at the family photos on the wall. There they were, frozen in time: Dorothy holding newborn Emily. The two of them on vacation in Wisconsin. Emily's high school graduation, college graduation, wedding day. The grandchildren—two beautiful grandchildren who would grow up with memories of their grandmother's cookies and the way she could make them feel that even in the saddest day things would be better soon.

His eyes landed on their wedding photo. Dorothy had been just eighteen, though she seemed so worldly to him then. He had been nineteen, working at his father's hardware store and saving everything he could to buy her the ring she deserved. They had met at a church social.

He had fallen in love with her in that moment they met. It had taken three weeks before he had worked up the courage to ask her out. She had said yes before he'd finished asking, and when she had smiled at him, the whole world had suddenly made sense.

An entire lifetime.

Richard made his way upstairs, something he'd been avoiding since she passed. Their bedroom door was closed, exactly as he left it the morning the ambulance came. He stood there for a long moment, his hand on the doorknob, before finally turning it.

The room still smelled like her, that combination of lavender soap and the rose-scented lotion she had used every night before bed. The bed was made, hospital corners, the way she had always done. Her slippers tucked under the edge, waiting for feet that would never wear them again.

On the dresser sat her jewelry box, the wooden one he had made for her in that woodworking class years ago. It was crude work, the joints not quite even, but she had acted like it was the finest thing she had ever seen. Inside were the simple treasures of a well-lived life: her earrings, the diamond ring he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary, the locket with pictures of Emily and the grandchildren.

He picked up the anniversary ring, so small and delicate in his weathered palm, along with her watch and the small cross she always wore.

"I don't know how to do this without you, Dot," he whispered.

Only silence answered him.

That night, Richard lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the mattress feeling too large, too empty. They had bought this bed together thirty years ago, after their old one had finally given up. Dorothy had wanted something firmer, better for his back, she had said. She had always been thinking of him, always caring.

He reached across to her side, letting his hand rest on the pillow where her head had lain for thousands of nights. How many conversations had they had in this bed? How many times had she scolded him for his cold feet, or had he pretended to snore just to make her laugh? How many times had they held each other through the struggles in life, death of their parents, and her cancer scare fifteen years ago.

The darkness surrounded him, and for the first time since she had died, Richard let himself truly cry. Not the quiet tears that had leaked from his eyes over the past week, but deep, wrenching sobs that shook his entire body. He cried for the future they wouldn't have, for the granddaughter's wedding Dorothy would never see, for her birthday party the grandkids had been planning. He cried for the morning coffee ritual they would never share again, for the Sudoku crossword puzzles she worked on while he read the news, for the way she would look at him and pat his arm when he said something particularly foolish.

Most of all, he cried for the loneliness that stretched out before him like an endless road.

Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving him exhausted and hollow. He must have slept, because when he opened his eyes again, morning light was filtering through the curtains. The funeral was today.

Emily arrived at ten sharp, looking pale and worn in her black dress. Her husband Scott and her helped him into the car. The drive to the funeral home passed in a blur as he was lost in memories.

The funeral director met them at the door, all practiced sympathy and gentle efficiency. There were papers to sign, details to confirm. Richard moved through it all mechanically, nodding when appropriate, signing where indicated. Emily handled most of it, her voice steady even as her eyes remained red-rimmed.

Then they went to the viewing room, and there she was.

Dorothy lay in the casket they had chosen, nothing fancy, she would hate anything fancy, wearing the blue dress she had bought for Emily's wedding. Her hands were folded across her middle, holding a single white rose. The funeral home had done their work well; she looked peaceful, almost as if she were sleeping.

But she wasn't sleeping. That was clear in her stillness, in the absolute absence of the vital spark that had made her Dorothy. This was just a shell, he realized. His Dot, the woman who sang off-key at church, who always wanted him to be eat healthy, who had held him when things were bad…she was already gone.

People began to arrive. Friends from church, neighbors from down the street, former coworkers, distant relatives. They offered condolences, shared memories, told him how sorry they were for his loss. Richard shook hands, accepted embraces, thanked them all with words that felt rehearsed.

Emily stayed close, her presence keeping him grounded. The grandchildren came, Jacob, sixteen, trying to be brave and Jessa, thirteen, unable to stop crying. Richard sat with the kids for a while, soothing their feelings and telling her that Grandma would always be with them, even if they couldn't see her. He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he wanted them to.

The service began at eleven. The pastor spoke about Dorothy’s life, her kindness, her faith, her devotion to family. He told the story about how she had been a Nurse, caring for the elderly for forty years, how she enjoyed watching her grandchildren learn and grow, how she had never met a stranger. It was all true, every word, but it felt incomplete. How could you sum up a person's entire life in twenty minutes? How could words capture the essence of someone who had been the center of your world for more than sixty years?

Emily spoke too, her voice breaking as she shared memories of her mother. She talked about Dot's obsession with hummingbirds and how she'd planted flowers all over the yard just to attract them. About the way she could make anyone feel welcome, how their house had always been full of life and laughter and the smell of baking.

Then it was over. The pastor said the final prayer, and people began filing past the casket one last time, paying their final respects. Richard watched from his seat in the front row, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. One by one they said goodbye, Mrs. Lindberg from next door, quietly crying; the book club ladies who'd met at the library every month for twenty years; Jim and Janet from church, who had been on double dates with them back when they were young.

Finally, everyone else had gone, and it was just Richard, Emily, and Scott remaining. Emily touched his shoulder gently.

"Dad? It's time."

He nodded but didn't move immediately. This was it, then. The last moment. Once he left this room, it would be finished, final and forever.

Emily helped him to his feet, and together they approached the casket. Scott hung back, giving them privacy.

Up close, Richard saw how they had arranged her hair. The slight smile they had shaped her lips into, though Dorothy's real smile had always been bigger, brighter, so alive.

Emily squeezed his hand and then stepped back, understanding that he needed this moment alone.

Richard stood there, looking down at the woman who had been his everything. His hands gripped the edge of the casket, knuckles white with the effort to hold himself upright, trying to keep it together.

"Well, Dot," he said softly, his voice hoarse. "This is a fine mess you've left me in."

A tear fell freely.

"I meant what I said, you know. That day we got married, when I promised to love you in sickness and in health, till death do us part. I kept that promise every single day." His voice broke. "But nobody told me how to live without you. Nobody."

He thought about all the things he wanted to say, needed to say. Thank you for the coffee you brought me every morning, even when your arthritis made holding the pot painful. Thank you for pretending my jokes were funny. Thank you for letting me win at Scrabble sometimes, even though we both knew you were better with words. Thank you for choosing me, that day in the church basement.

Thank you for Emily, for the grandchildren, for the life we built in that little house with the lace curtains and the creaky stairs. Thank you for every argument we had and made up from, every crisis we weathered together, every evening sitting on the porch watching the sun go down.

Thank you for being the person who knew me better than I knew myself. The person who could tell when I was hurting just by the way I held my shoulders. The person who remembered that I liked my eggs over-easy and my toast with lots of butter. The person who held my hand through every tough time and celebrated every good thing like it was a miracle.

Becoming overwhelmed, the words wouldn't come. His throat was too tight, his heart too full.

Instead, he reached into the casket and took her hand. It was cold and stiff. He held it anyway, his thumb tracing over her knuckles the way he'd done ten thousand times before when they sat watching television or riding in the car.

"I don't know how to do this," he thought. "I don't know how to wake up tomorrow or any day without you. I don't know who I am if you are not here.

The silence pressed in on him, but in his mind, he could hear her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside him. "That is such nonsense, Richard. You are still you. You are still the man who fixes things and tells terrible puns and cries at sad movies when you think no one is looking. You are still Emily's father and those babies' grandfather. You are still the man I loved with my whole heart."

"I'm not ready," he said. "I'm not ready to let you go."

You never would have been ready, she would have said. Not in a hundred years. But ready or not, my love, you must keep living. You must wake up tomorrow and the day after that. You must finish my mystery novel and tell me how it ends when we see each other again. You must be there for the grandkids. You must keep being you, because that is the man I love, you are the man I love.

Richard lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her cold fingers, looking at the wedding ring she had worn for sixty-one years.

"I'll try," he promised. "I'll try, for you Dot."

He stood there a moment longer, memorizing her face one final time. The silver hair that had once been the richest brown. The laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, each one a map of joy they had shared. The small scar on her chin from when she had fallen off her bike at age sixty, insisting she was never too old to learn something new.

This was goodbye. Real goodbye. The kind that echoed through eternity.

Emily appeared at his side again, her own tears flowing freely now. "Dad, they need to... it's time to close..."

He nodded. He understood. The funeral director stood respectfully in the corner, waiting.

Richard leaned down, his old bones protesting, and placed one hand gently on Dorothy’s folded ones. With his other hand, he touched her cheek.

"Goodbye, my darling girl," he whispered. "Thank you for every single day. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for loving me even when I didn't deserve it. Thank you for making my life something beautiful."

Then Richard, broken-hearted, leaned down and pressed his lips to his wife's forehead one last time. The kiss was tender, lingering, full of years of love, devotion, and partnership. It was a kiss that held every morning they had woken up together, every evening they'd fallen asleep side by side. It was a kiss that contained every "I love you".

It was the kiss that said goodbye and I will love you forever and until we meet again and thank you for being mine.

When he straightened, tears streaming down his weathered face, he felt Emily's arm around him, supporting him, loving him. The funeral director stepped forward quietly, and Joe knew what came next.

"Goodbye, Dot," he said once more, his voice barely a whisper. Then he let Emily guide him away, one slow step at a time, leaving behind the physical form of the woman who had been his heart, his home, his entire world.

Behind them, the casket closed with a soft, final click.

Richard stood on the steps of the funeral home, feeling the chill around him.

Emily held his arm, Scott on his other side, solid and steady. The grandchildren clustered close, needing his strength even as he drew from theirs.

"Let's go home, Dad," Emily said softly.

Home. That house full of memories and stories and years of love. That house where he would have to learn to be alone, to be just Richard instead of Richard and Dorothy.

"Okay," he said, his voice stronger than he felt. "Let's go."