.𝖘𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖉𝖊.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.