DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF IT CHARACTERS. I ONLY OWN SAMANTHA FLACK AND DANIEL, MACKENZIE, MIKAYLA AND OF COURSE KIERAN. WHO WAS THE FIRST K TO EXIST. HE'S EXISTED FOR OVER A YEAR AND THAT OTHER K…WELL I JUST FELT THE NEED TO DEFEND MY OC'S.

THIS IS A FUTURE CHAPTER. SO GRAB THE TISSUES

HUGE THANKS TO MY GIRL CASS. FOR EVERYTHING.

AND TO ALL OF THOSE SENDING ME THEIR WELL WISHES!

Who will see me through?

"If I only had two words left to say to you.
With my last breath I'd confess the truth to you.
You've never left my side.
Even when I fell behind.
Thank you.
Thank you
For sharing all your love and all your dreams.
Thank you for every tear of happiness I've cried.
Thank you.
For laying down beside me here tonight.

When I close my eyes I say a prayer for one more day with you.
And when I wake, I embrace, the one who pulls me through; who pulls me through the storm when I can't go on.

Thank you. Thank you for the life you've given me.
Thank you for sharing all your love and all your dreams.
Thank you for every tear of happiness I've cried.
Thank you for laying down beside me here tonight.

You've never let me down.
It's like you don't know how.
Thank you. Thank you for the life you've given me.
Thank you For sharing all the love and all your dreams.
Thank you.
Thank you."
-Thank You, Johnny Reid

For my wife on Mother's Day

Flack tried vainly to swallow around the massive lump of emotion that formed in his throat at the sight of those six simple words. Raised burgundy calligraphy on a cream coloured card, the front of which boasted a beautiful image of a bouquet of roses done in water colours. Light mauve, baby blue, pastel yellow and pink. Sam had always loved white champagne roses with pink trim around the tops edges of the petals. And every birthday of hers that they had celebrated, every Valentines Day and every Mother's Day since Kieran was just an infant, he'd always made it a point to send the flowers to either home or work. He'd never included a card with them. She didn't need one. The roses were something personal between them. Something she'd always been able to associate with him. He was the only one who'd ever purchased them for her. Other men in her life that had come before him had always disregarded her favourite and instead sent her long stemmed red roses or solid pink. Or, in an effort to impress her, sought out the relatively rare and overly priced blue roses.

Sam had always accepted them with a gracious smile and a polite thank you, but she had told Flack -after she'd pointed out the roses during a walk through and outdoor market on the lower east side shortly after they'd gotten together- that she'd always been left feeling disappointed. No matter how beautiful the flowers actually were. That while she appreciated the sentiment, what she would have appreciated more was someone that took her likes and dislikes into consideration. Someone who didn't try too hard to make an impression. He'd seen the way her eyes lit up when she plucked a bouquet up from its display and holding them to her face, inhaled deeply. He'd noticed how she enjoyed something so simple. And he realized that he wanted to be the guy that made the biggest impression in her life.

He'd bought the flowers right there and then.

And so began their three times a year 'ritual'. Each time she was excited even more then the last. The novelty never wore off, and the huge smile and her sparkling eyes and the bear hug and the kisses he'd received in thanks were all the thank you he'd ever needed.

What he wouldn't give to feel her arms around his torso. To bury his lips in her hair as she rested her head against his chest. To breathe in her soft, alluring scent. To taste her kiss.

Even just for one last time.

You're fine, Flack, he assured himself. You're going to be fine. Every day that passes is going to get easier. One day you're going to wake up in that empty bed and not feel so lonely. One day it won't hurt so fucking bad. Your heart won't feel so goddamn empty. You'll be able to look at her picture or say her name without nearly crumbling.

He wondered when that would happen. And even if he wanted it to happen. He was worried that when the pain finally began to subside, that his memories of her would also. Every day that passed since her death, Flack worried about waking up one morning and simply not remembering her. Aspects of her. He worried that he wouldn't be able to recall what her lips had felt like against his own. That he'd forget what those small, warm hands had felt like while they roamed his body or combed through his hair or gently cradled his face. He was scared he'd forget her smell. The scent of baby powder that lingered on her skin. She'd always liked spreading it over her body after a bath or shower. And he loved it. Along with the vanilla honey shampoo she'd been using for years.

He fretted that he'd forget her voice. Over the last decade, he'd often teased her about her Brooklyn accent. It had been embedded deeply enough inside of her to survive nearly sixteen years in Arizona and he'd often chided her about how when she was angry or drunk it was almost impossible to understand her.

And he worried that he'd forget her laugh. That musical, heart warming giggle that had filled his life for so long. That had always succeeded in bringing smiles to everyone's faces, eve on the darkest, most trying days. A giggle that the twins and Mikayla possessed.

Most of all, he worried that he'd forget what their love had felt like. That one day he would find that he'd forgotten what it had felt like to have been loved by her. To have shared so much with her. To have climbed so many mountains and to have fought so hard to keep things together.

As long as the pain remained, so did all of his recollections of her. And to Flack, keeping her close was far more important than sparing himself emotional agony.

Sighing heavily, he blinked back tears and ran a fingertip over the lettering on the front of the card. Mother's Day had been a month and a half ago. It had been the kids' idea six weeks ago to make their mother cards and go and visit her at her 'special place'. At the time, Flack had agreed to take them to the grave site. He'd stood at the kitchen table, supervising the boys -the twins mostly, because Kieran, who was convinced being nine made him a man, had insisted that making a card was babyish and all but demanded his dad give him the money to buy mommy a card- while they sat at the table surrounded by pieces of construction paper in a wide variety of colours, glitter, craft beads and scraps of white lace that Grandma Flack had brought over. They were remnants of an old table cloth she'd had, and when Daniel had told her about their 'project', she had thought that the lace would be the perfect touch on cards for their mommy.

"Reminds me of a princess," Daniel had declared, as he fingered a piece of the dainty fabric. "Just like mommy. Mommy was pretty like a princess."

"Prettier," Mackenzie had piped up. "Prettier then all the princesses in the world."

Flack could vividly remember being taken back by the words that had come out of Mackenzie's mouth. Out of the twins, he was the strong, silent type. While Daniel constantly asked to see photos of his mother and always wanted his father to talk about her, Mackenzie staunchly shied away from said activities. He insisted that he knew what mommy looked like and didn't need to see pictures.

And he refused to be in the same room when his dad talked to Daniel about her. While Daniel's outward displays of anger and grief -the biting of himself and other kids, the ripping out of hair (when he had hair that was), the fighting and the violent outbursts deeply concerned Flack, so did Mackenzie's silent approach to mourning his mother. The kid showed…nothing. Zero emotion. And on the rare occasion his son did talk about his mom, it was with a cold, harsh tone. She was gone and that was that. And if he showed a glimmer of sadness and Flack attempted to console him, Mackenzie became angry and stomped out of the room.

So it had startled Flack to hear his son say something so…nice…about his dead mother. And in a gentle, quiet voice at that.

The moment had been fleeting however. When he'd walked behind Mackenzie's chair and laid a comforting hand on his son's shoulder, the little boy had shoved his dad's hand off of him and tossed the kids' craft scissors in his possession onto the table and then proceeded to angrily sweep all of the beads and lace and ribbon and glue stick onto the floor. Then he'd bolted off of his chair and took off out of the kitchen. His footsteps soon thundering up the stairs and the slamming of his bedroom door echoing throughout the house.

Flack had calmly and patiently cleaned up the mess. He'd gathered up every last bead off the floor and placed them in an empty margarine container and put the lid on it. The lace and ribbon he'd gently slipped into a plastic sandwich bag. And then he'd taken both the container and the bag, along with Mackenzie's half finished card and scissors and glue, and set them in the rubber maid tote box that said on the floor in the pantry.

Sam had called it the Tickle Trunk. After the chest Mr Dressup had kept his costumes in on his show. The kids had always liked to make crafts and she'd built up quite the stash of goods. Drawing paper, markers and both pencil crayons and the chunky type reserved for little kids, various coloured pipe cleaners, pom-poms and pieces of felt. She'd even tossed in mounds of old egg cartons, juice containers -to use to make bird feeders- a jar of googly eyes and another of buttons and several balls of coloured yarn. Finger paints and a wide variety of different themed stamps and coloured ink.

And an obscene amount of popsicle sticks. He'd laughed as he'd caught a glimpse of them, remembering a time she'd 'demanded' that he help her polish off half a box of popsicles because the boys needed the sticks to make a craft at camp the next day. He'd been sitting out on the deck when she'd walked out with the carton and he'd commented how it would have just been easier to go to Wal-Mart and buy them from their art supplies section.

"But what fun is there in that?" she'd asked, and slapped a popsicle into his hand.

Flack had sighed and unwrapped the frozen treat as she took a seat alongside of him on the top steps of the deck, the box of popsicles on the step below. He could still remember -nearly a year later- that it had been a disgustingly humid and uncomfortable night. It had been after midnight and he'd been unable to sleep. Air conditioning after too long caused his arthritic knees and his bad back to ache, and they'd long ago resorted to sleeping with their bedroom windows open and air conditioners in just the kids' rooms. He'd gone out onto the deck to have a smoke and a couple of beers -having falling off the wagon yet again- and had left Sam in the kitchen with her lap top paying bills on line.

He could even remember what she'd been wearing. A pair of purple, pink and white striped satin ladies boxer shorts and a purple satin halter style top. Just another little sexy yet sweet number she'd bought at Fredrick's of Hollywood. Her hair, just below her shoulders at that time, had been put back and held in a makeshift bun with bobby pins. The slight breeze had been tousling the loose tendrils that were dangling at the back of her neck. He remembered that he'd been unable to resist leaning sideways and pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. She'd giggled. It had been on of her most sensitive spots.

He'd watched as she peeled open the wrapper on her cherry popsicle and popped it into her mouth. Then he'd looked down at the grape one in his hand and frowned.

"You know that's my favourite, Sammie," he'd said. "How come I get the shitty purple kind?"

She'd just shrugged and proceeded to use the tip of her tongue to skim the entire length of the popsicle.

He'd physically shuddered while watching her. Knowing that she was doing it to get him worked up. She'd always been able to do a hell of a good job at that. "Come on, baby," he'd said, and bending his head, pressing kisses along her shoulder. "You know how much I like that kind."

"And you have a grape one," she'd told him. "So suck it up and eat it."

"I'd rather you suck it up," he'd chuckled. "Literally."

She'd rolled her eyes and called him a pervert. Then broke her popsicle in half and gave him a section. "Suckie Baby…" she'd teased, and stuck her tongue out at him.

That simple act, mixed in with the unbearable heat and the sheer sexiness of her neck exposed, her satiny skin on display and the little beads of sweat that glistened on her shoulders, had done something to him. He'd grinned, snatched the popsicle out of her hand and tossed it and his aside. Grabbing her, he'd kissed her, his mouth and tongue devouring hers, her slight frame no match against his strength as he pushed her down onto her back on the deck.

"Kinky," she'd giggled, her hands fisting in his hair, a soft moan escaping her as his lips found her neck.

To spare the neighbours the thrill of a free show, they'd taken things inside and up to their bedroom. Once behind closed doors, hot and steamy sex had been made even more so because of the insanely hot temperature in the room. Sex…love making…whatever you wanted to call it, had always been their favourite past time and number one stress reliever. They enjoyed it. Immensely. And would partake in it as much as possible. In Sam, he'd found a sexy, sensual woman. At the start of their relationship, she'd been somewhat inexperienced and meek and mild during sex. He had effectively turned her into his own personal sex goddess. He couldn't get enough of her and vice versa.

That night it had been a quick, almost rough coupling. She'd raked her nails painfully down his back and cried out into his shoulder. And afterwards, after he'd spent himself inside of her and they lay together in their rumpled bed, bodies drenched in sweat, their hearts pounding and her head resting on his chest as he stroked her damp hair -most of the bobby pins had fallen out and littered the bed and floor- she'd suddenly giggled and raised her head to look at him.

"What's so funny?" he'd asked, pushing her hair away from her face.

"Detective Flack…" she'd drawled in a sultry voice as she pressed kisses along his collarbone and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. "You're every one of my wildest sex fantasies come true."

He'd laughed at that. And he still laughed a year later.

Even if that laugh did come out sounding like a choked sob.

Flack looked down at the card on the counter before him. He had purchased it over a month ago and had had every intention of singing it, maybe even writing a little love letter inside of it, and taking it to the cemetery along with the cards the kids had so lovingly created. Only when the time had come on Mother's Day morning, with the kids already dressed in their Sunday best and anxiously awaiting their visit with mommy, Flack had chickened out. He'd literally been standing where was now, at the island in the middle of the kitchen, fully dressed in a crisp pair of khakis and a white dress shirt and he'd suddenly decided not to go. He couldn't do it. Emotionally he wasn't ready. It was their first Mother's Day without her and his shattered heart just couldn't bear to acknowledge it. He couldn't stand the thought of seeing his kids breaking down at their mother's grave. And he couldn't take the risk of breaking down along with them. So instead, he'd broken their hearts by telling them he couldn't take them to see her. That maybe when he wasn't so sad he'd be able to do it.

Now he was able to. Or he at least thought he was.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he released it slowly and then flipped the card open. He'd hadn't even had the courage to sign it a month ago. He remembered the way he'd drummed the fingers of his right hand nervously against the counter top as his left hand gripped the pen so hard his knuckles turned white and plastic threatened to snap.

Just like he was doing right now.

Get a grip, Flack, he ordered himself. You can do this. You know you can. Just write down what's in your heart. What you're feeling. You can do it.

You have to do it.

Sighing once again, he put pen to rose coloured paper.

Every day I thank God for the day you were born and the years that I got to spend with you. I had never been so proud of anything in my life until I was able to call you my wife and the mother of my children. I love you. I miss you. I always will. Until we meet again…love, Don.

He paused and re-read his words through the tears that threatened. Something didn't seem quite right with what he'd written. And then a small grin appeared on his lips as he once again returned the tip of the pen to the card. Quickly adding an I and an E to the end of his name.

Sam had been one of the few people who'd ever called him that. And somehow, every time she'd said Donnie, the more and more he liked it. Coming out of her mouth at least. And it was one of those things that he missed terribly. Hearing her say his name. Whether it be in casual conversation or when she was whining about something. Whether it was in an argument or during their intensely passionate moments. He missed it.

Terribly.

Shutting the card, he wiped a stray tear away with a finger and slipped the card into its pink envelope. He licked the flap and closed it, using the side of his hand to smooth out the wrinkles and shut it securely. Capping the pen, he dropped it onto the counter and set the card on top of the ones the kids had placed where he wouldn't forget them.

"Daddy!" Daniel called as scurried into the kitchen, skidding dangerously in his socks as his feet hit the tiles.

Flack reached out, grabbing a hold of the back of Daniel's white dress shirt before he could slam face first into the fridge. "You've got to be careful buddy," he said, pulling his son gently towards him. "How many times have mommy and…" he bit his bottom lip and corrected himself. "..how many times have I told you not to run in the kitchen? Especially with socks on? You could get really hurt."

"Sorry, daddy," Daniel hung his head sheepishly. "I forget. Sometimes my brain doesn't work. It's just…I need your help with something."

"What's that?"

Daniel picked up the ends of the blue and red striped tie that hung loosely around his neck.

Flack grinned at the sight of his little son. In his incorrectly buttoned dress shirt, wrinkled navy blue dress pants that were nearly an inch too short -he'd worn them to get family pictures taken, nearly a year ago now and he'd grown considerably- one black sock and one blue one. And that tie. It was Kieran's from his first communion and it was a mess from being tucked into a drawer since that day.

"You don't need to dress up buddy," he told Daniel gently. "We're not going to church or anything."

"I know…but I wanted to look nice to visit mommy in her special place," the little boy reasoned. "Mommy always calls me a handsome boy. So I have to look handsome."

"Well mommy calls you…" Fuck, Flack thought. When will that end? When will I stop talking in the present and get a grip on what happened? "Mommy called you that 'cause it's true. You are a handsome boy."

"Like you!" Daniel chirped. "Cute like daddy, smart like mommy."

Flack just smiled and gave a small nod, then crouched down on one knee in front of his son. "You sure you want to go dressed like this?" he asked.

Daniel nodded. "I have to look nice, daddy. Mommy deserves that. She hasn't seen me in a long while. She won't want me to look like a bum."

Flack didn't have the heart to tell him that in his mismatched socks, too short pants, wrinkled shirt and his stained tie that that was exactly what he looked liked. He could tell, in Daniel's voice and eyes, that this moment meant a lot to him. And that he wanted it to be perfect. "Mommy will love how you look," he assured his son, then proceeded to unbutton the shirt and then button it back up properly. He flipped up the collar and wrapped the tie around Daniel's neck. And it struck him, as his hands quickly and efficiently tied that piece of fabric, how many times Sam had done it for him during the past decade. It was something so simply, but there'd been an incredible, indescribable amount of affection in the way she'd watch him getting dressed for work and then say nothing as she crossed the bedroom and stood in front of him. Reaching out, she'd lay her hands over his, halting his actions and then taking over the task. Maybe it was in the way she'd looked at him, her eyes never leaving his. Maybe it was in the way, when after she was done, she'd trail her fingers gently down his face and stand on her tip toes, her free hand on his chest as she puckered up for a kiss.

"Daddy?" Daniel's voice broke into his reverie.

"What buddy?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

"It's been a long time since mommy's seen me. Will she recognize me? What if she doesn't know who I am?"

"Mommy will always know who you are," Flack promised his son, and folding down the collar of the shirt, tightened and straightened the tie. "How can she not know you? She carried you in her tummy for nine months. You're her baby boy. There's no way she'd forget you, Daniel."

"But it's been so long, daddy…like a lifetime."

Flack nodded. It had in reality, only been just shy of three months since Sam had died. But to him, some days it seemed like just yesterday and other days it seemed like an eternity. And to a child…well thirty minutes seemed like a lifetime to them.

"I hope she doesn't get mad that I shaved my eyebrows off," Daniel said. "And that I got into a fight at camp."

"I'm sure she'll understand," his dad told him.

"I just don't want her getting mad," the little boy said fearfully. "I don't want her yelling at me when I haven't seen her in so long."

"Daniel…" Flack sighed heavily and laid his hands on his son's shoulders. "Listen to me…I know that we're going to see mommy in her special place. But she isn't…she isn't really there. Well she is, but she isn't."

The little boy cocked his head to one side, a perplexed look on his face.

"Mommy…." Flack chose his words carefully. "Mommy is dead, Daniel. Do you understand what I'm saying? The special place that she's in…just her body is there. Nothing else. She…her spirit is in heaven."

"But grandma said that mommy is sleeping in her special place," Daniel said.

"Mommy isn't sleeping," Flack told him, inwardly cursing his mother for making his job more difficult. "Mommy is dead. It means that she doesn't exist anymore. She's in heaven. With Grandpa Clint. She's an angel now. And we can't actually see her."

"But you said she was still here, daddy. That she was all around us. That's what you said."

"I meant that her spirit is all around us," Flack told him. "I didn't mean that…I know this is hard to grasp, Daniel. It's even hard for me to grasp, okay? But we've talked about this over and over again, buddy. Your mommy…she's gone. Forever. She's never coming back. And I know you miss her. And I miss her. So much. And I love her and I…" his voice broke and the tears threatened to overcome him. "I think we need to get going," he finished, steeling himself as he got to his feet. "Go and get your shoes and tell your brothers we're leaving. Ask Kieran to bring Mikayla downstairs with him."

"Daddy?" Daniel looked up at him, dark eyes wide and curious.

"What?" Flack asked irritably.

"You know it's okay to be sad, right? That mommy isn't here anymore. You know it's okay to cry, right? Daddies cry too, you know."

Flack gave a small nod and swallowed noisily. "Go upstairs," he ordered gently. "Please."

"It is," Daniel insisted. "Daddies are big and strong but they feel sad too sometimes."

"Please, Daniel…" he practically pleaded. "Just go…just go and finish getting ready. Okay?"

The little boy reluctantly nodded before turning on his heel and hurrying out of the kitchen.

Flack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Turning, he laid his hands on the ledge of the island, and dropping his chin to his chest, closed his eyes tightly.

I can't do this, he thought, struggling to keep the sobs and the tears inside. I just can't do this. I can't answer their questions and deal with their grief when I can't deal with my own. I just can't. I need help. They need help.

Composing himself, he opened his eyes and cleared his throat noisily before walking across the kitchen and snatching the cordless phone off of the top of the fridge. He stared at it for a few moments, debating whether to place the call or not.

She probably doesn't want anything to do with me 'cause of the disaster of the other night, he thought. She probably thinks I'm a complete fucking ass for the things that I said to her. It was okay to turn her down but I could have been a little more gentle about it. She's hurting too and she was just trying to help. And you know that you can rely on her. She's dealing with some heavy shit too. But Sammie loved her. The kids love her. Suck up your pride and do it for your kids.

Giving a nod as he made his decision, he pressed talk and dialled the familiar number. Feeling slightly relieved when it went directly to voice mail.

"Jessie…" his voice cracked as he spoke. "I'm sorry for the other night and I…I never meant to be like that with you. But I…I need you. I need help and I didn't know who else to turn to. Please just…please just call me back. Please."

Flack disconnected the call and set the phone back on the fridge.

"Dad?" Kieran's voice came from the kitchen doorway. "Are you okay?"

Flack nodded and turned to face his oldest. Dressing in a pair of cargo pants and a yellow golf shirt, Kieran had a hold of Mikayla's hand as she stood beside him, dressed in a white cotton sundress with pink rosebuds sewn into the fabric, pink sandals and a white sunhat.

"Are you sure?" Kieran asked, concern in his voice and in his eyes.

"I'm sure, K," he assured his son.

"I got Mikki's diaper changed and I put her shoes and hat on," Kieran told him. "You want me to go and put her in her car seat?"

"Sure," Flack told him, and grabbing his keys off the top of the fridge where they sat by the phone, tossed them across the room.

Kieran caught them effortlessly. Then grabbing Mikayla's Strawberry Shortcake bag from the kitchen table, slung it over his shoulder and then scooped his sister up into his arms. "Let's go and get in the car, Mikki," he said, as he made his way out of the kitchen. "We're going on a car ride."

"Caw wide?" Flack heard Mikayla's tiny voice ask.

"Yep," Kieran told her. "We're going to go and take a ride and go see mommy."

"Mommy?" Mikayla's voice sounded hopefully.

"Mm-hm," her brother said. "We're going to visit her. You won't be able to see her though. But you'll be able to talk to her if you want. Then we're going to go over to grandma and grandpa's and have a barbecue. Sound like fun?"

"Wots of fun, K," Mikayla chirped. Then followed it up by a loud smacking noise.

"Ewww…" Kieran complained. "Gross, Mikki. You give wet, nasty kisses."

"You nasty, K," his sister informed him.

Flack couldn't help but chuckle. Journeying over to the island, he gathered up the cards from himself and the kids, noticing his two youngest sons as they scampered into the room together.

"You guys ready?" he asked. "You both go pee and all of that?"

The two boys nodded.

"You have to write mommy's name on that, daddy!" Daniel cried, as he noticed the pink envelope with nothing on it in Flack's hand. "Mommy won't know it's for her if you don't!"

Flack grabbed the pen off the counter, uncapped it and quickly printed his wife's name on the front of the envelope in big letters.

"And we can't forget mommy's cupcake!" Daniel exclaimed, rushing over to the fridge. Yanking it open, he gently removed a small, pink box from Weinstein's bakery in mid-town that held one chocolate with vanilla icing cupcake inside of it. The top of the treat bore a butterfly made of pink and yellow icing. Sam had loved the cupcakes from Weinstein's, and it had been Kieran who'd suggested they take her one. Even if it did go rancid sitting out in the sun for forever and a day.

"What's wrong, Mackenzie?" Flack asked, as he smoothed out the shoulders of his son's red golf shirt. The little boy had been pouting and sulky all day long, and his foul mood seemed to get worse as he watched his brother carry the cupcake box.

Mackenzie shrugged.

"Tell daddy what's wrong," Flack encouraged, as he combed his fingers through his son's hair.

"I wanted to carry mommy's cupcake," he said in a mere whisper.

"Daddy already said I could!" Daniel argued. "He said last night I could carry it!"

"How about you do something for me?" Flack asked Mackenzie. "Think you could do daddy a favour?"

"I suppose," Mackenzie huffed, eyes downcast.

"Here…" Flack held out the pink envelope. "Carry daddy's card to mommy. Can you do that?"

Mackenzie's eyes widened. "But it's your card, daddy!" he protested.

"I know…and I trust you enough to carry it for me. Think you can handle it?"

"Of course!" the little boy cried happily, and carefully removing the item from his father's hands, hurried excitedly out of the kitchen. Daniel tagging along slowly, carrying the cupcake ever so gently.

Flack sighed and looked down at the white gold wedding band on his finger.

I'm getting there, babe, he thought. Slowly but surely I'm getting there.

"Come on daddy!" Daniel called from the front door. "We can't be late!"

Flack sniffled noisily and took a deep breath. Mentally preparing himself for the difficult step that lay ahead of him.

Give me strength Sammie, he prayed as he headed out of the kitchen.

Just give me strength.

Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing! I appreciate each and every one of my fans! Even all the lurkers! Please R and R folks!

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