Later that night, after she bathed and settled him into bed, she found herself hunched over the laundry sink staring at his soiled clothes.
It had to be a one-off,she told herself, reaching for the scrubbing brush.He had a moment, and it’s over now.
It wasn’t over. A week later, it happened again.
The next day, Daisy went to speak with one of his doctors and found herself backed in a corner and humiliated. Where she expected empathy and kindness, she was greeted by a woman who’d told her bowel dysmotility was a normal stress response, and it might be time to consider putting him in adult nappies.
“I’m not doing that!” Daisy said, standing from her chair. “He’s had everything taken away from him; I’m not going to take away his dignity, too. There has to be something you can do.”
She waited, expecting the woman to reconsider her suggestion, only she didn’t. “Do you really think letting him soil himself is giving him dignity, Mrs Thomas? If he was my husband—”
“But he’s not, is he?” Daisy shot back, tears running down her cheeks. “He’smyhusband!”
Then, without waiting for another apathetic response, Daisy left, and the support she desperately sought for him never came.
Weeks rolled into months, and by the time summer was fast approaching, the soiling had become a daily occurrence. Daisy was isolated and trapped, unable to voice how she felt without judgement when he popped into her thoughts once again—Logan.
She’s not sure why she did it or even if he’d reply, but line by line, she spilled it all. She told him how Callan was falling apart, how she was falling apart, and didn’t know what to do. Then she admitted something so dark it made her sick: that she’d started having daydreams about letting him end it all and didn’t know what was worse—those thoughts, or the moments where she’d have to look him in the eyes and tell him it would get better. Logan, of all people, knew what a lie that was.
He didn’t reply straight away, and after two days passed with Daisy fearing she’d made a mistake and a social worker or the police would soon be knocking on her door, a single message arrived.
It made her breath catch, and she stared at the response, unsure of what to reply.
“Can I see you?” Logan had asked.
Seeing him in a public setting was one thing; having him come into the intimate corners of her life was something else entirely. No matter how kind his intentions, his offer had the makings of a disaster written all over it.
And despite everything—despite her pride, her fear, and better judgement—she said yes.
XXXIII
LOGAN
Logan sat hunched at his desk, the muted glow of his laptop casting shadows on the walls of his study. He’d just finished drafting a section on the amygdala, describing it as the “fear centre” of the brain—a small, almond-shaped cluster nestled deep within the temporal lobes. It fascinated him, the way something so small could wield such an influence over emotion, memory, and behaviour. While vital for survival in precarious situations like crossing the road, it had a habit of overreacting, often sounding alarms when there was no real threat at all.
One of his professors back in his first year of university had labelled its motto, “Better safe than sorry,” adding with a wry smile, “it prefers to send a dozen false alarms on a whim,because if at least one of those is a hit, that’s all that matters.” That made sense on paper, but how was he supposed to explain PTSD? What was it about combat that brought a tenfold surge in anxiety disorders and created the perfect concoction for PTSD to lie dormant, sometimes for years?
If what his professor said was true, wouldn’t there have been signs? An individual can live in flight-or-fight mode and do their best to disguise it, but there are always signs. The average Joe isn’t a seasoned Oscar winner, so perhaps the real problem wasn’t the brain’s wiring at all. Maybe what was truly needed was for people to pause and listen— really listen—to the spaces between words, to everything that isn’t being said.
As he reread the paragraph, considering whether to use more clinical language or leave it more accessible, the notification pinged. An email. Fromher.
His chest tightened as his eyes landed on her name. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since she’d given birth and life had changed completely. He’d travelled for a few months before opting to move to New York for a temporary residency back in the summer, working with one of the United States veteran agencies, helping to understand brain trauma. It was only meant to be a year, possibly two, but as more time went on, he’d started to like the idea of making it permanent.
London might have been vast, but the professional and personal circles were small, and he’d always find himself crossing paths with someone who remembered too much.
He removed his glasses and sighed, questioning whether to open the email. Whilst he still thought of her, it had become more sporadic in nature, wayward daydreams and loose afterthoughts. But this washer. She wouldn’t have reached out if she didn’t need him. After another minute of hesitation, he clicked open the email, and it tore him in half.
Logan,
I’m not sure why I’m writing. Maybe because there’s no one else I can say this to. Maybe because you always saw through me. You alwayssawme. And right now, I don’t even recognise myself in the mirror anymore.
I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. I wouldn’t blame you if you stopped reading right here. After the way I ended things, without giving you the explanation you deserve, I wouldn’t even blame you if you blocked me. You were worth so much more than that, Logan, and I’m sorry. Maybe it’s unforgivable. Maybe reaching out now is just another selfish thing I’m doing. But I could really use a friend right now, but not just any friend—I need you; Ireallyneed you.
He closed his eyes, picturing her gazing at the screen just as he was, her expression soft and focused. A heavy sigh escaped him as he ran a hand over his face, then continued reading, trying to push away the thoughts clouding his mind.
Callan is...slipping. I don’t even know how else to put it. He’s unravelling right in front of me, and every day, it’s getting worse. One moment, he’s shouting at the wall, pleading for someone to help him, when we don’t know how. The next, he’s soiled himself and curled up on the floor, buried so far in his mind he doesn’t even know I’m there.
Before you ask, I’ve tried to get him help. The army and its psychiatrists have both told me it’s normal. That word normal makes me want to scream. As if watching the man I married lose himself, bit by bit, little by little, isn’t enough, Ihave to contend with our daughter waking up in the middle of the night crying because she heard Daddy screaming and stabbing the door with a kitchen knife. He’s unwell, but he’s not the villain. You know, just as much as I do, if I admit to them about all this, if I let them into our world, they’ll take him away regardless. I don’t want that; I love him. But every day, it’s becoming harder to lovethisversion of him.
