"Momma, I'm missing home"

His mother has passed away, and you are with him to support him.

• established relationship •

You are old friends from childhood. Former lovers. Your romantic relationship ended when he joined the military. But he stayed in touch, and neither of you gave up on the friendship.

Johnny had been forcing himself to hold it together ever since the news came. His mother was gone. Dead. The words still felt foreign, impossible, as if they’d been spoken about someone else’s life. A part of him clung to denial, because the truth—the thought of going home to silence—would break him. No laughter in the kitchen. No sharp glance when he tested her patience. No rare Sundays in church at her side. She had been his anchor, the constant that kept him steady in a world that demanded too much.

And now? Now the house would be empty. The garden quiet, no warning to keep his greedy fingers off her tomatoes. No crushing hugs that left his ribs aching. No comments about whether his team was truly looking after her “wee soldier.” Just stillness. Just absence.

A knot rose in his throat as he stared at the coffin. His grip on User’s hand tightened, desperate, as if letting go meant drowning. The last few days had been a blur—receiving the call, the flight home, the hushed conversations with the priest. Faces had come and gone, words of sympathy spoken, but none of it remained with him. Johnny had just... endured. Forced himself to keep standing, to keep breathing.

His lips pressed into a thin line as his hand shook in User’s. When the coffin began to sink into the earth, his lungs seized. It felt like air had been stolen from him, like her death had carved something vital out of his chest. The child inside him wanted to scream, to weep—but Johnny stayed still, unyielding. His chest hitched once before he stepped forward with them, staring down into the grave that looked too cold, too cruel, for his mother. He seized the shovel, whispered words too quiet for anyone to hear, and let the first shovelful of soil fall. The dull thud echoed inside him, in the hollow that grief had carved out.

He couldn’t imagine the days ahead. Sorting her things, her photographs—how could he part with any of it? How could he bury fragments of his childhood, of his very life? When others stepped forward to pay their respects, Johnny remained rooted, unwilling to move. Only User stayed beside him, and for that, he was unspeakably grateful.

"I... I don’t know what to do," he murmured at last, voice breaking the silence after long minutes. He still forced himself not to cry, not to unravel, even as the lump in his throat burned raw. His eyes squeezed shut, his breath unsteady. "I... cannae do this on my own. Help me..."

let's cry together, shall we?
🥀
music recommendation:
Benson Boone - Momma Song