Later, they told me the medic almost lost me in the chaos of dust and blood.
Recovery was long and brutal. I had to relearn how to stand, how to balance, how to exist in a body that no longer felt like mine. Some days I hated the prosthetic so much I wanted to throw it out the window and disappear.
Some days, I nearly did.
But Jess was there when I came home. I still remember how her hands trembled when she first saw me.
“We’ll figure this out,” she whispered. “We always do.”
And somehow, we did.
We married, had Evie not long after, and built a life that felt solid—earned.
Still, a memory surfaced of Jess catching sight of my leg after a long day and turning away just a little too fast. I told myself it was only hard for her—the swelling, the angry skin, the antiseptic smell. I never let myself doubt her love.
Not truly.
“Next!” the cashier called, pulling me back to the present.
By the time I got home, the sun was sinking behind the trees. As I approached the house, I noticed Gloria from across the street sitting on her porch, absorbed in one of my books.
“Hey, Callum,” she said without looking up. “Jess stepped out earlier. She asked me to listen for Evie. Said you’d be back soon.”
My leg throbbed. My stomach tightened.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No. Just seemed urgent. The car was already running when she came to get me.”
The moment I stepped inside, I knew something wasn’t right. The cake was still on the counter, unfinished. The frosting knife rested against the bowl. No music. No Jess. No Evie.
Only silence.
“Jess?” I called out, louder than I meant to.
I knew Gloria said she wasn’t there—but I had to try anyway.
Five minutes after reading the note, I buckled my half-asleep daughter into her car seat, slipped the folded letter into my pocket, and drove.
My mother opened the door before I even knocked. Maybe she’d heard my tires screech into the driveway. Maybe she’d been waiting.
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