PT still kicks my ass. Every time I walk across that room with my prosthetic strapped on, every time I fall and scrape my palms raw, every time the therapist says "again," I do it. I grit my teeth and do it.
Because Lucy's smile flashes in my head.
Because her hand still fits in mine.
Because that baby is real, growing, waiting.
Because I'm tired of being angry at the world, at myself.
Because maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to believe I'm not broken beyond repair.
I want to be the man who walks toward them, not the one who hides in a dark room full of ghosts.
My first few weeks of therapy was horrible. My stump was raw, the prosthetic like a foreign limb trying to fight me with every step. I remember collapsing halfway across the gym floor, sweat pooling at the base of my neck, shame thick in my throat. I'd looked up at my therapist, expecting pity.
Instead, she just handed me a towel and said, "Next time you'll fall two feet farther. Then five. Then one day, you'll walk right past that mark. Get up and let's go again."
That day, I almost quit. Almost told her to shove the damn leg and roll me back to my room. But I saw Lucy's name on the envelope I'd tucked into my bag. Saw the curve of her handwriting and remembered the way she once said she believed in me more than I believed in myself.
Which is why I got up.
And now? I don't just fall. I rise again faster every time.
Jake notices. One morning, he shows up early with coffee and hands me a cup like we used to do before our shifts—before the military.
"You remember what you said to me when I first came back?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"You said, 'You don't have to prove anything. Just breathe.'"
I nod. "Sounds like something you needed to hear."
"Yeah. But maybe you need to hear it now too. You're trying so damn hard, Caden. And I see it. But you don't have to earn your place back. You never lost it."
Then, for a while, we sit in silence, sipping coffee. It feels good. Normal. We're brothers again, not just men broken by war and time.
Noah starts sticking around after therapy, tossing a football in the yard or helping me figure out how to balance on uneven ground. One afternoon during PT, he watches me struggle with a balance bar.
"You keep leaning like that, you're gonna end up on your ass again," he says.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Just calling it like I see it. You gotta shift your weight to the left sooner. Trust your body. Even when it's changed."
I give him a look. "Easy for you to say."
He steps closer. "No, it's not. I still wake up with burning skin and nerves that don't fire right. My body's a patchwork quilt, Caden. But it still carries me. Yours will too."
We finished the session with him coaching me through the last ten minutes. I don't fall that time.
Brentley shows up a week or so later with Mom in tow, arms full of takeout and that typical twin brother grin.
"You look like crap," he says cheerfully.
"Nice to see you too."
Mom hugs me, her arms tight and shaky. I feel her tears soak into my shirt, and I let her hold me as long as she needs.
