And at the same time…
I fell in love.
Her name was Erica. She had a laugh that spilled into rooms before she reached the doorway, a wild streak she never apologized for, and a way of making everything feel like it mattered. She was sunlight after a long storm, exactly the kind of person I shouldn’t have let close.
I didn’t intend to.
She got close anyway.
Too close.
For a while, she seemed okay with sharing me with responsibility. With grief. With my brother’s needs. But eventually the cracks strained, then widened, then split.
She wanted a partner.
Not a surrogate father.
Not someone who said “maybe” every time she asked about the future. Not someone who lived half in his past and half in his obligations.
One night, without warning, she said she couldn’t do it anymore.
Her exact words burned into my memory.
I want a man, Carson. Not a guardian.
She wasn’t cruel. Just honest. She thought honesty softened the blow.
It didn’t.
After she left, I learned something about myself I wasn’t proud of:
When I lost people, I didn’t break evenly.
I shattered quietly.
Inward.
Neat pieces.
Easy to hide.
Impossible to repair.
I became good at one thing — being alone.
Not lonely. Just alone.
Solitude settled into me like frost finding cracks in the earth. It felt predictable. Safe. The fewer attachments I had, the fewer ways life could tear open the ground beneath my feet again.
So I built a life that required no one.
Seasonal work.
Guiding trips.
No relationships.
No fixed address.
