I don’t know why I opened my nightstand drawer. Maybe I needed something familiar. Inside were old receipts and dog-eared paperbacks. That’s when I found it. Folded inside my copy of The Things They Carried was another note.
Callum, If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t say it out loud. Maybe I should have. Maybe you deserved that. But I was afraid. I don’t remember his name. It was one night. I was lost back then—adrift while you were gone. When you came home, I wanted to believe none of it mattered. That we could still be us.
Then Evie arrived. She looked like me. And you held her like the world made sense again. I buried the truth because Addison told me you wouldn’t survive it. Your mother is rarely wrong. But lies grow. It filled our house, slipped into our bed, followed me everywhere. I watched you become the most beautiful father—gentle, patient, full of awe. I couldn’t be that kind of pure.
You never once looked at her like she wasn’t yours. I couldn’t look at her without wondering. Please keep her safe. Let her stay little a bit longer. I left because staying would’ve shattered what was still intact. I love her. And I love you. Just not in the same way anymore. —J.
The next morning, Evie stirred against me, her curls tangled, her stuffed duck tucked under her chin. I hadn’t slept much. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I wanted to be angry at Jess—but I didn’t know how. Instead, I felt like I’d failed everyone.
“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked sleepily. “She had to go somewhere,” I said softly. “But I’m right here.” She didn’t reply—just pressed her cheek against my chest.
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my prosthetic. My stump throbbed, skin red and tender. I reached for the ointment. Evie climbed up beside me. “Does it hurt?” she asked, wide-eyed. “A little.” “Do you want me to blow on it?” she offered. “Mommy does that for me.”
“Yeah,” I said with a small smile. “That’d help.” She placed her stuffed duck next to my leg like it needed comfort too, then curled into me, fitting exactly where she always had. We stayed like that for a while.
That afternoon, Evie sat on the living room rug, brushing her doll’s hair. My hands shook as I braided hers. “Mommy might not come back for a bit,” I told her gently. “But we’ll be okay.”
“I know,” she said simply. “You’re here.”
Sunlight spilled across her face, warm and soft. She was still here. And I wasn’t leaving. We were smaller now—but we were still a family. And I would learn how to hold us together, even with one hand missing.
