Chapter 7: Comfort and Loss
So many people, really so many people, were coming in and out of the room.
The usually pristine hallways echoed with hurried footsteps, the click of heels and the low buzz of urgent voices. Staffers pressed in, some in tears, others stiff with duty. It was a side of the White House I’d never seen before—its nerves exposed, frantic and raw.
The young boy stood there, looking even sadder amid the noisy crowd.
He was off to the side, half-shadowed by the big windows, his eyes downcast. He looked lost, like a kid at a grown-up funeral, the world suddenly too big for him to carry.
I broke free from my mom’s embrace, ran to his side, took his hand and said, "Do you want to come into my mom’s arms? If my mom hugs you, you won’t be sad."
I offered him what little comfort I had—Mom’s hugs could fix anything, I believed. His fingers were cold in mine, and I squeezed a little tighter, hoping it would help.
He shook off my hand and ran into the inner room.
Maybe grown-up boys didn’t want hugs, even if their dads were sick. I felt a sting in my chest, but I tried not to let it show.
I looked helplessly at my mom. She smiled at me, patted my head, and said it was alright.
Her smile was watery, but she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, like she always did when I was scared. "You did good, honey," she whispered.
Lily also imitated mom, patted my head, and said, "It’s alright."
Her little hand was warm and familiar. It reminded me that no matter how strange things got, I still had my twin beside me.