The Three Musketeers

His body had already gone cold an hour ago. Lips, parted as though he intended to whisper one last goodbye. But – no – my father’s last words were spoken days prior, singing me a ‘Happy Birthday’ rendition with what little energy he had, as the rain tapped against the cold window of the hospice care room.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

It was raining today too, rapping against the windowpane as though death itself asked to be let inside. I stared blankly out the fogged window, wondering if death would present itself as it carried my father away into the realm of which we do not know.

My mind swarmed like a beehive. This couldn’t be real – I must be having a nightmare. And for a second, I tried to pretend that’s all it was.

My mother’s cool touch pulled me back to where we stood; above my father’s lifeless body, awaiting the funeral home to pick him up. Prying my eleven-year-old fingers away from his faded blue gown, she held my little sister’s hand in her left, and my own in her right.

“We will be okay.” She whispered, caressing our tear-damp cheeks.

Tear-stained skin herself, the second my father died, my mother became two parents in one.

“We will be okay.” She repeated, “Do you know why?”

We shook our heads as exhaustion took over.

“From this day forward, we are the three musketeers. Together, we can get through anything.”

And from the moment they took his body away, we did just that. The three of us became independent women, dependent on each other.

When faced with foreclosure, months later, we packed all our belongings and moved away from the suburbs and into a tiny cabin up north. My sister and I adjusted from big-city living to the type of living where the only things open on a Friday night were the poorly-lit gas station and a run-down bar.

At the time, we didn’t understand, but growing up in the middle of nowhere was the best thing my mother could have done for us. Because of my mother, we were given experiences and opportunities that would have otherwise been unknown.

On Saturdays, we learned the best way to spend an afternoon was on a boat. And on Sundays, we spent our evenings hiding under blankets right before the climax of a new horror movie. Throughout the week, we were all busy with school and work – but late at night, we would reconvene to the dining room, where my mother would always send us to bed with bellies full of a hot dinner.

When my father passed, my mother blessed us with the one thing we needed more than anything: love.

And the biggest life lesson she had drilled into our hearts was, “family is above all else.” And for us, this was true. At the end of the day, I always expected I could sneak into my mother’s room and be cocooned in a safety net of blankets and snuggles as she healed my broken heart. There was never any doubt that she would not be our number one cheerleader.

Years after losing her one true love, my mother re-married.

John was the fun guy who made her feel young again. The handyman, who brought her dream projects to life. And he was unemployed, but she assured us he made his money in Craigslist’s gigs.

Above all else, we were happy that our mother was happy. And at the time, that’s all that truly mattered.

What we didn’t know, came to reveal itself rather quickly into their marriage.

John was emotionally manipulative and constantly berated her into thinking she was a terrible mother – and raised disrespectful children. He was controlling and wouldn’t let my mother see her friends anymore. He was destructive and caused chaos in his fits of rage.

John had convinced her, if she left him, she would be alone for the rest of her life. And that scared my mother into staying.

My sister and I sought help frequently – but emotional abuse doesn’t hold up like physical abuse might. Bruises of the heart aren't as easily seen, as what is on the surface of your skin.

We stopped having Saturday boat days.

We no longer watched horror movies on Sunday nights.

And through John, we watched my mother fade away into nothing more than a guarded hen. Guarding her heart, and guarding us kids.

The worst day of my mother’s life was the day she met John. Meeting him, was her death sentence.

I moved out when I turned eighteen, my younger sister begging me to take her with me. But I couldn’t - I was going to college a couple of towns over. I had turned down a full-ride scholarship because it meant moving over an hour away, and after everything that we had gone through, I couldn’t put myself to be that far, ‘in case anything happened.’

A year after being gone, the ‘in case anything happened,’ did.

John murdered both my little sister and my mother before he took his own life. There is never good reasoning to take another’s life – and the situation that had occurred for it to happen was a silly argument that could have been treated at the roots.

The day he murdered them, was the day the three musketeers turned into one.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I bring myself back to that day often, standing above my father. My mother whispering words of hope.

My mother is now the wind personified, tapping at my window, whispering, “We will be okay.”

We were okay growing up, because of my mother. And I will continue to be, because of the life she built for me.