I shook my head, hung up, and got married.
Where’s Hunter?
I was right there.
I was so standing right there.
EPILOGUE
DEAR BEAU
Dear Beau,
Where are you, buddy? God, I miss you. You’ve never been more than a step from my thoughts since the very last time I held your hand. I promise you I’m trying my best, but I really wish you were here to give me a hug and tell me everything’s going to be okay.
I never felt the ache of your absence more than the night our family stood on the stage together after Dad gave his victory speech as president-elect. He did it, Beau! He beat back a vile man with a vile mission, and he did it without lowering himself to the unprecedented depths reached by his opposition. The moment it became clear he’d won I thought of the long discussion that you, me, and Dad had during Dad’s first presidential run, back when you and I were teenagers. I remember the three of us arguing passionately about whether one could become president while still being true to yourself and your principles, or whether you’d be forced to employ the dark arts of negativity and cynical, self-serving politics.
We were certain then that Dad could hold onto those principles that make him who he is and still get elected to the country’s highest office. It took a while—a long while, for sure. He had so many opportunities during this election to do to the other side what they were doing to us—to attack Trump’s adult kids and family, to rile up the crazies—but he didn’t.
Standing on that stage, Beau, holding your seven-month-old namesake, who Dad lifted from my arms as fireworks lit the sky, all I could think about was how proud you would’ve been.
You would have loved the scene on election night, too, even though the night would’ve driven you nuts, not least because the vote counting dragged on for days. Yet one of the benefits of waiting so long for the race to be called was that we all waited it out together, at Mom and Dad’s house—Melissa and the baby, my girls, Natalie and Hunter, Ashley and Howard. More than waiting together, we were also quarantined together. There was no escaping one another.
For much of the first night, little Hunter and I sat together on the couch in the downstairs room with the big TV on, the rest of the family filtering in and out. The early returns were all over the place—we were up, we were down; we were winning Ohio, then losing Ohio. All night Hunter and I looked at each other and exchanged variations on “I hate this! Why do we put ourselves through this?” But of course we loved it. We’d yell at Natalie to sit down so we could see the TV, just like I used to get on you for hogging the remote. They’re so funny and mature now, Beau.
My girls took on their own roles. Maisy made everyone laugh with her wry observations. Finnegan was full of insight. She’d sit by Mom and Dad and give specific edits as Dad reviewed speeches he gave to update supporters and the rest of the country as that night and the following days wore on. Even with Ron Klain, Mike Donilon, and Aunt Val giving their own advice over speaker phone, Finnegan had the confidence to voice what she thought. And then there was Naomi—God, you’d love Naomi. She has this sense of poise and elegance and grace—and the driest wit. They miss you so much, Beau.
The night played out exactly how you would’ve hoped. It was the culmination of what you once told Dad: no matter what happened, he couldn’t give up. I know you didn’t mean he necessarily had to keep running for president, but that he did have to continue to have the purpose that holds this family together.
Throughout the campaign Trump attacked everyone in the family in the harshest, most horrible terms. But instead of tearing us apart, the barrage of assaults accomplished the opposite: they allowed us to fully heal again. That first night, when the networks called Florida and Ohio for Trump, and we trailed in Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin, the family didn’t devolve into a circular firing squad. Everybody just curled up on the couch together. Win, lose, or draw, nothing was going to change that.
Given the place I was in only a year and a half earlier, I felt blessed. A little before midnight, before Dad left to give an update in front of a crowd honking car horns at a drive-in rally, I told him what we always told him: no matter what, we’d already won. I felt for him, though. It was a Herculean task to project confidence at a moment when people around the world were trying to figure out how this election could even be close.
By the time I went to bed, at 3 a.m., the sense of dread everyone felt was overwhelming. Melissa had already fallen asleep and I spent the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling. I tried not to think dark thoughts, but it was hard not to think that what Melissa and I had feared most might come to pass. Those early hours, before the vast majority of our outstanding votes had been counted, felt perilous. A Trump victory was not only a threat to democracy, it also seemed a threat to my personal freedom. If Dad hadn’t won, I’m certain Trump would’ve continued to pursue me in the criminal fashion he’d adopted from the start.
Then I woke up the next morning,
