That night, while Evie slept soundly in my bed, I sat in the bedroom with the lights off, listening to her breathing. The house felt too big without Jess’s humming, too quiet without the soft shuffle of her slippers against the tiles.
I don’t know why I opened the drawer in my nightstand. Maybe I needed something familiar. The inside was mostly old receipts and paperbacks with cracked spines.
That’s when I saw it. Tucked inside the copy of “The Things They Carried” was another folded piece of paper.
Maybe I needed something familiar.
“Callum,
If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t say it to your face. Maybe I should have. Maybe I owed you more than this. But I was scared.
I don’t remember his name. It was just one night. I was lost back then. You were gone, and I felt like I was drifting. And then you came home, and I wanted to believe that none of it mattered.
That we could still be us.
“If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t say it to your face…”
And then Evie came. And she looked like me. And you held her like the world was okay again. I buried the truth because Addison said you’d fall apart if I didn’t. Your mother is rarely wrong.
But the lie started to grow, and it filled every space in our home. It crawled into bed with us, and it followed me into every room.
I watched you become the most beautiful version of a father, gentle, patient, and full of wonder. I couldn’t match that.
“Your mother is rarely wrong.”
You never looked at her like she wasn’t yours, and I couldn’t keep looking at her without wondering if she was.
Please protect her. Let her be little a while longer. I left because staying would’ve broken what was still whole.
I love her, and I love you. Just not the way I used to.
-J.”
“Please protect her.”
The next morning, Evie stirred in my arms and looked up at me, her curls wild and her duck still tucked beneath her chin. I had barely slept. I didn’t know how to feel. I wanted to be mad at Jess, but I realized I didn’t know how.
I felt like everything had been my fault.
“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked, voice groggy.
“She had to go somewhere,” I said gently. “But I’m right here.”
She didn’t say anything. She just leaned her cheek against my chest.
“Where’s Mommy?”
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off the prosthetic. My stump throbbed, the skin angry and red. I reached for the ointment.
Evie climbed up beside me.
“Is it sore?” she asked, her eyes round.
“A little.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off the prosthetic.
“Do you want me to blow on it? Mommy does that for me.”
“Sure, baby,” I said, smiling.
She laid her stuffed duck next to my leg like it needed rest too, then curled into me, fitting perfectly in the space she’d always known.
We sat like that for a while.
That afternoon, Evie played on the living room rug, brushing her doll’s hair. I braided hers with trembling fingers.
“Mommy may not come back for a while. But we’ll be okay, Evie.”
“I know,” she said simply. “You’re here.”
“Do you want me to blow on it? Mommy does that for me.”
Sunlight spilled through the window, warm across her face.
She was still here. And I wasn’t going anywhere.
We were smaller now, but still a family. And I’d learn how to hold it together, even with one hand missing.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
