Lucy
It's been a few days since that night in Caden’s room. Tonight, the need to be near him is sharp and sudden. I feel it in my chest before I hear a sound, a thread between us pulling tight. By the time I swing my legs out of bed, I already know: he's not okay.
For a moment, I sit on the edge of the bed, holding one of his old letters in my hand. I read it to the baby earlier, my voice soft in the dark. I told them all about their daddy, the way he used to laugh with his whole body, the way he drew our future in pencil and hope. Then I whispered, "He still loves us. Even when it hurts too much to say."
I press my hand to the curve of my stomach and listen. The house is still. But I know that kind of stillness now. The kind that hides pain.
Grabbing my sweatshirt, I slip out into the cold Georgia night and take the path leading next door to Oakside. Staying with my brother, who lives on the property, does have some advantages.
Before I even reach the end of the hallway, I hear it. A sharp, muffled cry. The thud of something hitting the wall. Then silence. That kind of silence that isn't calm but charged. Heavy.
I knock once and push the door open.
He's sitting upright in bed, chest heaving, shirt soaked through. The blanket is half on the floor. His eyes lock on mine, and I see it. The fear. The shame. The pain.
He doesn't speak.
Without asking permission, I walk in and sit on the edge of his bed. Close, but not touching.
"Another one?" I ask quietly.
He nods. "They're all the same. The blast, the heat, and then the screaming. My body won't stop reliving it."
I reach for his hand, he lets me take it. His fingers tremble in mine.
"Caden," I whisper, "you're safe now. You're here."
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "But I don't feel safe. Not in my body. Not in my mind. I feel like a bomb that's always ticking."
I hold his hand tight, not letting go.
"I don't know how to be the man you need," he says after a beat. "I don't know how to be a dad."
My breath catches.
He finally said it. Out loud. The fear I've seen living in his eyes since he came home.
"You don't have to know everything," I say, my voice soft but steady. "You just have to love us. That's all. Love us through the mess. Through the fear. That's what makes a father. That's what makes a man."
He looks at me like he wants to believe it, but doesn't know how.
"What scares you most?" I ask gently.
He swallows. "That I'll never be whole enough to love you the way you deserve. That I'll screw this kid up before they ever get the chance to know me. That the only version of me worth loving died over there."
"You're not the only one carrying those fears," I say. "But you're still here. Still trying. That matters."
He breathes through his nose. "What do you see when you dream?"
"Us. On that porch. You holding the baby. Me laughing because you're already talking about building them a treehouse before they can even sit up."
His eyes pinch shut as if the image hurts more than it helps.
"Sometimes," he says, voice tight, "I wish I hadn't come home."
I grip his hand tighter. "Don't say that."
"It's not about dying. It's about the weight. The guilt. It never stops. I lost brothers. I came back different, and I don't know how to carry all this."
