A year. He visited her grave with Emma. She didn't understand death still, so he didn't tell her. Didn't tell her the name on the grave was her mother, didn't tell her she was dead, just said her mother couldn't come see them right now. Luckily, she never asked why. He'd tell her soon, some day when she understood. He left white lilies on her grave and some roses from Monica and Chandler, who had to take the twins to the doctor.
It was hard day for him. Phoebe offered to take care of Emma for the rest of the day until tomorrow, her baby bump faintly visible, and for once he accepted. He just wanted to be alone. Sat down in his apartment, opened the first beer he'd ever had since she died. Only had one. Stared at the blank TV, remembering when they watched Cujo.
He stiffly opened the door to her room, leaning against the door frame, welcoming the smell of vanilla for once in a long time. He had taken an aspirin earlier, but his headache was back. He shut the door behind him, glancing around the room. Everything was where he left it, as always. There wasn't a vase of the dresser anymore, of course.
He sat down on her bed. His stomach was in turmoil again, but he kept himself from retching everywhere. Instead, he fell back onto the bed, surrounded by the scent of her skin now, a more personal smell than the lingering vanilla. He felt like he was suffocating again, but he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and drifting off to sleep.
Surprisingly, it was the best sleep he'd had in a very long time.
And the best part was he dreamed of her. Happy, smiling, laughing, blue eyes lit up. Of the time they danced in the rain, when she'd first reciprocated his feelings. Subconsciously, he felt like she was beside him.
And maybe she was. Just for a little while.
Before he awoke back in the real world, she gave him another beautiful smile and told him, "I'm so proud of you. I knew you'd be a great father. I love you, sweetie."