The Masen Household, Master Bedroom-February 1918
It was his father, his father that it got first.
The room was cold, despite the fire burning low in the hearth. Edward could hear the occasional crackle from the flames, but it was a distant, muffled noise, nothing compared to the thick silence that pressed down on them. The heavy drapes were drawn against the cold, but it still seeped in through the cracks of the windowpanes, a chill that matched the hollow emptiness in Edward's chest. He didn't know how to breathe. How to cry.
His father was dying. There was no gentle way to say it. There was no euphemism. His father's body had already started to fail him months ago, but today… today was different. Today, there would be no more "maybe tomorrow."
He had never imagined his father could look so small. So pale. The man who had once seemed like a pillar—unwavering, steady, unshakable—was now reduced to a sweaty, feverish figure in the bed. His father's once-thick mustache now lay limp, the hair turning gray at the edges, and his usually strong hands trembled when Edward gently grasped one, as if the mere touch could break the fragile thread of life left in him.
The hospital bed creaked beneath the weight of him, his father's breaths shallow, ragged. The room smelled faintly of sickness and medicine, things that Edward had always associated with something foreign and wrong. Not with the man who had once carried him on his shoulders, who had laughed and ruffled his hair in ways that now seemed like echoes, almost impossible to remember.
His mother sat at the edge of the bed, her body still, her eyes empty. Her tears had already run dry, the quiet sobs now reduced to the occasional tremor that wracked her fragile frame. She had said her goodbyes, and Edward didn't know if he could bear to hear any more. It wasn't that he didn't love his mother—he did, so much—but right now, all he could focus on was the man beside him, the man who had given him life and yet never truly given him anything he could hold onto.
His father's hand squeezed his briefly, just enough to pull him back from his own spiraling thoughts. He looked down at the old, worn fingers, now so frail. The strength had left them long ago, and all that was left was the weight of years that were too few.
"Edward," his father's voice broke the silence, raw and hoarse. It was the first time he had spoken in hours, and it felt like a blessing and a curse all at once. Edward's heart leapt at the sound of it.
Edward's breath caught, but he leaned in closer. He wasn't sure he was ready to hear what was coming, but he didn't want to miss it either.
"Edward… you're my boy," his father rasped, his voice breaking under the strain. His eyes were glassy, feverish. "You always were. Always will be."
Edward swallowed hard, biting his lip to stop the flood of tears that threatened to break free. He squeezed his father's hand, too scared to let go. "Father… I—" His voice broke, the words strangled in his throat. "I'm here. I'm here with you."
"I know, son," his father whispered, and the words seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. "I know you are." He coughed once, harshly, then winced as if the movement took everything out of him. "Edward, there's… there's things I should have told you, things I should have done." He coughed again, quieter this time, and his voice seemed to strain with each word. "I was never good at it, but you… you deserved better. You deserved more."
Edward clenched his eyes shut, holding on to his father's hand tighter. "No, Father. You didn't—"
His father cut him off gently, almost fiercely. "I did. I should've hugged you more. I should've kissed you. I should've—" His voice cracked, and for a moment, Edward thought he wouldn't speak again. But then the words came, slow and agonizingly fragile, as if each one was being fought for. "I should've let you know how proud I was of you. I should've told you. You… you were always enough. Always."
Edward froze, his chest tightening. The lump in his throat grew larger. His father's voice was thin now, desperate, as though trying to give him everything he could in his final moments. "I didn't know how to do it, son. But I know now. I know I failed you, and it tears me apart." His father's eyes were unfocused now, barely able to stay open. His grip on Edward's hand was faint, like a whisper.
"Father, please…" Edward sobbed, squeezing his father's hand again, but this time, there was no strength in it. His father didn't respond. Edward didnt know it would hurt quite so much, the idea if his father not being around.
"I was so cold to you," his father continued, each word weaker than the last. "I didn't know how to give you the love you needed… But you always had it. Even when I couldn't show it. Even when I didn't… didn't know how. You've always been my son, and I'll never… never stop being proud of you." His voice broke, and this time, he couldn't hide the tears. Edward could hear the sorrow there, in every quiver, every strain of his words.
"Don't leave me, Father… please," Edward begged, tears falling freely now. "I don't know what to do i-."
But his father couldn't hear him anymore. His eyelids fluttered, and with a final, labored breath, he whispered just one more thing. "Take care of your mother, son. You're the man of the house now. I love you. Make me proud, you've done it every day, so far."
Edward's heart shattered. He gripped his father's hand desperately, as if that would bring him back, but it was too late. His father was gone.
He was left with nothing but the sound of his own ragged breaths and the quiet, broken sobs of his mother. In that moment, Edward felt more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life. The last words his father had spoken to him were ones of love. He hadn't known he was loved. Hadn't known it, until the very end.
"I love you, Father," Edward whispered into the silence, but his father couldn't hear him anymore.
And so, Edward sat there, holding his father's hand long after the warmth left it, the weight of loss crushing him in ways that words could never describe. His father had been proud of him. He had always been proud, but he hadn't known how to show it.
Edward would carry that love with him now, in the emptiness left behind.