“I have nothing to hide.”
I disconnect the call before he can say otherwise. You can’t control the media; anyone with an internet connection knows that.
“Who says you do?” Liam asks, startling me. I’d forgotten he was still here.
“Do what?”
“Have something to hide.”
I look at my son. So grown up, but still young. Who’s lost far too much already. It hurts knowing I couldn’t protect him.
“No one. It was just a figure of speech.”
His eyes move to my wedding ring, still sitting on the table. I follow his gaze, nervous about what he’s thinking. Four years since Bex died, and I’ve never taken it off. Today, I’m not sure why I did. But it felt like time.
“Mum wouldn’t want you to be stuck forever,” he says quietly. “Taking it off doesn’t mean you love her any less.”
I wasn’t prepared for that. My son humbles me with a single sentence. My position as father disappears for a second, my chest filling with pride. We stare at one another. “It’s okay to move forward,” he whispers, voice breaking. “She told you that.”
Before I can consider what to say, he turns and leaves. My eyes stay focused on the door, trying to work out whether that was an instruction or permission. I pick up the ring. Maybe I can live with only a groove on my finger, as terrifying as the idea of not wearing my mark is.
It’s time to move forward. Deep down, I want to.
Living with a ghost has become familiar, but unhealthy. My children need to see that life doesn’t end when we lose someone. It changes.
Today, I fight not only for my family and the retreat, but also for Antonia and what she’s built. I have to decide whether I’m an oncologist, a widower, or a man who isn’t ready to be defined by loss alone.
I consider dropping the ring into a drawer. It’s too final. So I slip it onto the alternative hand. On a finger it’s never graced. And decide to be someone in between.
Today, I’m comfortable with that. Being a widower ready to step out of the gray and into the technicolor of life once more. That’s a compromise I can make.
***
As I walk into the Opengate offices, whispers echo all around. Employees speaking in hushed tones. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know it’s about me. Julian greets me at the front door, shaking my hand firmly in front of the protesters. They hiss and boo as if watching a pantomime.
A huge TV screen has been erected on the front steps, egg residue already glazing the glass. I pause for a moment, absorbing just what he meant by controlling the narrative, what I signed up for sinking in. This interview isn’t a conversation. It’s a rescue attempt. And I’m in the starring role.
I knew that, but seeing it play out in real life is a shock.
Julian leads me through to the conference room. Rows of chairs stand ready for guests, and there’s a raised platform at the front with two leather chairs poised to host. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Antonia is nowhere to be seen. I didn’t reach out, not knowing whether she agreed to the interview or not.
She didn’t want this. She made that clear. But she also said at the end of the last meeting that she trusted Julian with PR. That’s what she hired him for. And if his plan didn’t work, then he would be packing his things.
I decided not to invite her opinion any further. Not wanting a concrete answer. Conducting this interview feels necessary. Myway of supporting her and what she’s built in one of the few ways I can.
“How are you feeling?” Julian asks. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
He looks at me, and for once, it’s not with annoyance or irritation, but something resembling respect. He shakes my hand again.
“Thank you,” he says, sincerely. “This is the PR spin we need. Be ready in ten minutes.” With that, he walks away. I’m left staring at the empty room, waiting for people who may or may not rip me to shreds.