He has been strong; he has fought away his grief for so long. He has denied her passing for what has seemed to be years, but has in fact only been a few days. But the time has come to face her.
His father has left, taking his brother with him. He knows they will grieve together, perhaps in silence, perhaps not.
The door is before him, the steel grey door that lies between him and his grief. He does not dare to even look through the small glass window on it; he is afraid to see her. He wonders if he will even be able to open the door.
He is the strong one, he knows. He is a man of the law, trained to kill in order to protect, and to die if necessary. He is stronger than his younger brother; he did not hide in his equations and numbers. He is stronger than his father; he did not shut himself in his room for hours upon learning of her illness. He has always been ready to face the pain, always ready to accept it. He has gazed into the face of death many times before, and has walked straight and steadily.
But the face of death has never been the face of his mother.
A lump rises in his throat as he takes a deep breath, and clutches the door handle. He realizes he is trembling ever so slightly. He takes another deep breath, pushing down his sorrow. He will be strong for her, one last time.
The door swings open, and he finds his breath taken away, as if stolen by some unseen demon trying to claim his soul. His heart contracts with pain and he looks away from the heart wrenching sight. He looks back to open door, as if waiting to see his father, his brother, or anyone. He cannot face her alone.
No one is there. He must face his own breaking alone. Slowly, gingerly, he turns. His eyes remain glued to the floor. He can see the shadow of the table, cast from the harsh light above. He can see the ends of a blue sheet that covers his mother's wasted body.
He feels tears rise to his eyes, but he blinks them away. He wept with his brother; he had let Charlie's agony to crash into him. He had wept with his father; he had comforted Alan, sharing his pain as well. Why will he not allow himself to weep now?
Slowly, he begins to lift his head, constantly reminding himself to be strong. He must be strong; he must not weep.
His chest begins to heave as he catches sight of her hands, those beautiful, thin hands of grace and love. He remembers how they would stroke his hair at night when he would lay upset in bed, refusing to cry until she told him it was all right to cry. She had been so proud of her boy, her brave little boy.
He sees her face, and feels his heart begin to shatter. She, above all others, had been there for him. When she was alive, he had to be strong for his brother, for his father, but his mother knew his heart. She had known he had never felt strong enough, but he did not have to be strong in front of her. All he would have to do was wait for her to tell him he was indeed strong enough, that it was time to let the walls down.
He waits for her to say those words, waits for her lips to move, for her eyes to open, for her arms to embrace him for he has never needed those words more in his life. He needs to know if he can let the walls down one last time before her.
Inside, he feels her speak to him, telling him it is time. But just as his soul begins to warm in her presence, the quiet voice of his mother fades, and he is left alone. Cold silence cuts through the room, colder than the motionless lips of his mother.
"Mom," he calls out to her.
The walls crash down, and his heart shatters.
He breaks down, unable to bear the cold silence. He falls to his knees as sobs rack his body. He feels so cold, so alone. The ceiling above seems to be pressing down on him, forcing him to the floor.
He bends over, unable to stop the tears or the pain. He is overwhelmed; the horrible agony he feels is too much for him to bear. His breath is too short, his heart cannot beat enough; he cannot survive the incredible waves of pain crashing down onto his soul. He has nothing; he has no one. He drowns alone, without reassurance of recovery. He is not strong enough to move, much less leave.
He waits for someone to comfort him, someone to hold him. He waits for the presence of another grieving soul. But no one dares cross beyond the steel door. He knows that it will be always be that way from now on. He is the strong one; he must weep alone.
He lies on the floor, just beyond his mother's deathbed, his heart and soul shattered.