#abbot requests

Jack hadn’t really left the bed in the last month. Not properly. Not in any way that counted. One month since his wife had passed. One month since the world had split clean down the middle, leaving everything before it unreachable and everything after it… hollow. The house didn’t feel like a house anymore. It felt like a place where something had been interrupted mid-sentence.

The holidays had come and gone like a blur he hadn’t agreed to be part of.

Thanksgiving had been perfect. That’s what made it worse.

The three of you had been packed around the table, plates too full, laughter overlapping itself. You had been glowing—talking a mile a minute about your third semester, your new apartment, your roommates, the way you said “my place” like it still surprised you. You’d gone on about your classes, your professors, the dumb jokes your friends made, and how you’d told all of them about your baby brother like he was already here.

“Early Christmas gift,” you’d said, grinning, nudging your mom’s arm. She’d rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, one hand resting absentmindedly on her stomach.

You talked about taking the summer off. About how he’d be five, maybe six months old by then and how you were going to take him to the park, show him everything, like the world was something you could introduce him to piece by piece. Your mom had laughed and said people would think he was yours.

You’d just shrugged, smiling like you didn’t mind.

Jack hadn’t known then that he’d replay that moment over and over, like if he looked at it enough, he might find a way to step back into it.

You were gone for two weeks after that. Finals. Late nights, stress, coffee, the usual rhythm of your life continuing forward.

And then the phone call.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut briefly, like the memory might soften if he didn’t look at it directly. It never did.

By the time Christmas came, it was just the two of you.

The house filled up in bursts. Robby had come, like always, letting himself in without knocking. The Pitt Crew rotated through with arms full of store-bought food, loud voices that tried a little too hard to sound normal. Frozen meals had been stacked in the freezer like some kind of quiet offering. They stayed for a while, sat around, told stories, avoided certain topics with an unspoken agreement, then trickled out again.

Every time the door closed, the silence came back heavier. Grief did strange things to time. It stretched and folded in on itself. Days blurred together until Jack couldn’t tell if it had been hours or weeks since he’d last gotten up. He’d wake up exhausted. He’d fall asleep exhausted. Somewhere in between, you’d appear.

Like now.

You’d started knocking. Not loudly, not urgently. Just enough.

“Time to eat,” you’d say, like it was routine. Like it was normal.

You never sat on the bed. Not once. You always stayed on the floor, back against the wall or knees pulled to your chest, deliberately leaving your mother’s side untouched. It was a small thing, but Jack noticed. He noticed everything you didn’t say.

You’d talk sometimes. Other times you’d just sit there in silence, watching him until he picked up the fork. He knew what you were doing. You weren’t just keeping him company.

You were making sure he stayed.

This past week, something in him had changed. Jack had started sitting up more. Letting his feet touch the floor. The ache in his chest was still there, constant and deep, but it wasn’t swallowing him whole every second. He pushed himself up now, slow and stiff, one hand bracing against the mattress. His head throbbed with the tears he’d cried earlier. By the time he was able to drag himself out of bed without the gentle insistence of you or Robby, the tears had run dry. 

“What’re you thinkin’, kid?” he asked. 

You lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like you were deciding something, then shrugged and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m in the mood for salmon.” There was a pause as you stepped into the hall, then you added, a little lighter, “I love your friends, but I don’t think I can do another frozen lasagna.”

Jack huffed out something that almost resembled a laugh. It caught in his throat, unfamiliar, but it was there.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Think we’ve got about six more of those.”

“Seven,” you called back. “Uncle Robby brought two.”

Jack looked around the room. It still felt wrong. It probably always would. He pushed himself to stand, unsteady at first, then steadier. He reached for his crutches

“Hey,” he called, voice carrying weakly down the hall.

“Yeah?” you answered.

“…We got lemon?”

“Yeah, Dad. We’ve got lemon.”

+ + +

“When did you learn how to cook?”

You glanced up from the pan, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “I’m an adult, Dad. I’ve been experimenting.”

Jack let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh. It felt strange in his chest, like using a muscle he hadn’t touched in weeks. “Robby sent you a cookbook, didn’t h—”

“Yes.” You didn’t even let him finish, already reaching for a plate. “Are you finished?”

Jack blinked, looking down at his empty plate like it had surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten that much, let alone that quickly. “…Yeah,” he said, slower this time.

You nodded, efficient, gathering his plate along with yours. You ran the water, letting the pan soak, the faint scent of lemon and butter still hanging in the air.

Jack stayed at the table for a moment longer, watching you move around the kitchen. Watching how natural it looked on you. When had that happened?

His eyes drifted to the calendar pinned to the wall. New years had come and gone already. The date sat there, every one before it crossed out. 

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice catching slightly. “When is your tuition due?”

You shrugged without turning around. “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten it in my email yet.”

“Just tell me when you do.”

“Okay.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under him. He let his gaze unfocus, and like it had been doing so often lately, his mind drifted, wondering how you’d gotten to be so grown up. 

He could still remember the day you got your scholarship. The way you’d tried to play it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal, but your hands had been shaking when you handed him the letter. He’d read it twice before looking up at you, and you’d just been standing there, waiting for his reaction. He’d never been prouder.

Twelve hours away. Too far, if anyone had asked him back then. But he never would’ve said no. Not to you. Not to a future you were carving for yourself. 

And now, sitting there, all he could see wasn’t the college student you’d become, but the baby he’d brought home from the hospital.

Your car seat had been behind the driver’s seat. It had just made sense at the time. Easier for your mom to reach back if you cried when she sat in the front. Jack had once read that it was also the safest space, he driver’s side nearly always instinctively protected by the driver. 

It had become your spot.

Car seat turned into a bigger one, then a booster, then eventually nothing, but you still sat there. Always there. Even when you were old enough to sit anywhere else, you stayed behind him. He could see you in the rearview mirror eventually, your face peeking up, eyes curious, always watching.

Sometimes you’d reach forward and poke the back of his neck when you got bored.

“Dad,” you’d say, drawn out, just to get his attention.

Jack hadn’t questioned it when you stayed home longer than expected. You were grieving. Of course you were. He saw it in the way you disappeared into your room, in the quiet that followed you, in how you moved through the house like you were trying not to disturb something fragile.

But then January ended.

And February came anyway.

“Hey,” Jack said one afternoon, stepping into the dining room. You were sitting at the table, phone in hand, thumb scrolling absently. A half-eaten bowl sat in front of you.

You looked up. “Hey.”

He hesitated, then pulled out the chair across from you. “I think we need to talk.”

You straightened slightly. Just a little. But he noticed. “About what?”

Jack rested his hands on the table, fingers lacing together. “Why aren’t you at school?”

Your expression didn’t change much, but something behind your eyes did. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice stayed calm, but there was an edge now. “You’re not going to lose your spot, right?”

“No. It’s fine.”

Jack exhaled, jaw tightening. “You haven’t paid your bill either. I tried logging into the portal and I couldn’t get in.”

You stood before he could say anything else, picking up your bowl and turning toward the kitchen. “I said it’s okay.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, following you now.

You set the bowl in the sink, your back to him. “I took care of it.”

Jack’s chest tightened. “Took care of it how?”

You finally turned around.

“I transferred to stay home,” you said, like it was nothing. “It’s fine.”

For a second, he just stared at you.

“What?” The word came out sharper than he meant it to. “What about your scholarship? Your friends?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You moved to step past him.

He caught your arm just enough to stop you. “Hey. No. Why?”

You pulled back slightly. “Dad, seriously. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Why?”

The word hung there, heavier this time. You looked at him, and for a second, he saw everything you’d been holding in.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” you said, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it, “but Mom died.”

It hit like a blow. Jack flinched, the words cutting deeper than he expected, even though he knew them to be true. He shook his head. “You know she wouldn’t want you to have transferred. You had your eye on that program for years.” 

“Please don’t.”

“I’m serious. Call them. Ask if you can get back in. I want to be there when you—”

“I’m worried about you!” you cried, the words breaking out of you all at once.

Jack froze.

“I won’t let you kill yourself by—” your voice cracked, frustration spilling over into something rawer, tears spilling freely. 

“Hey,” he said quickly, softer now. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“You!” you shot back. “You didn’t talk for twelve hours. You didn’t eat for two days. Uncle Robby had to shake you out of a panic attack because you wouldn’t listen to me.” Your breathing hitched. “I left my scholarship because I care about you and I'd rather be here than be worried sick over there. Uncle Robby paid my tuition this semester so you don’t have to worry.”

“Honey. I’ll be fine. You should be living your li-”

“I’m not sorry for caring.”

Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he thought he was going to say didn’t matter anymore. His face crumpled before he could stop it. The sound that came out of him scared even him. He stepped forward and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tight, like if he held on hard enough, he could keep both of you from falling apart completely.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”

You stiffened for a second, then gave in, your hands gripping his shirt as everything you’d been holding back finally broke loose. The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. For weeks, you’d been holding it together and all of a sudden you didn’t have to. 

The two of you stood there, clinging to each other in the middle of the kitchen, grief pouring out in waves neither of you could control. After a while, Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your shoulders. His eyes searched your face, taking in every detail like he was afraid he might forget.

“You look…” his voice broke again. He shook his head, a wet, uneven breath escaping him. “You look and remind me so much of your mother,” he whispered.

His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t noticed fall.

Mrs. Abbot sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. She muttered something under her breath and then waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Okay. Fine. I’m going to bed,” she said, pushing herself off the frame. “Wake me if something happens.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just nodded faintly, already somewhere else in his head.

The house settled into a quiet that felt too loud. The hum of the heater kicked in, a low, steady drone. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall, each second stretching longer than the last.

Jack wasn’t sure how long he waited there, perched stiffly on the edge of the baby blue sheets. The fabric was wrinkled beneath his hands, still faintly warm from earlier. It felt foreign now, like he didn’t belong in the room at all. He picked at his cuticles, tearing at the skin without really noticing, his mind looping the same thoughts over and over.

He tried rehearsing it again.

Too stern, and the conversation would slam shut before it even started. He knew that look of defense. Just way too distant, gone before he could reach it. Too lenient, and his point wouldn’t land. It would be brushed off, turned into a joke and forgotten by morning. Too forgiving… and he’d lie awake the rest of the morning staring at the ceiling, hating himself for choosing comfort over responsibility.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking. Maybe he’d already messed this up. Maybe you were too far gone to be saved.

For a brief moment, he considered giving up and just crawling into bed beside his wife, pulling the covers over his head. He was good at pretending none of this was happening. Pretending things were simpler than they were.

The soft scrape of the window cut through the air. Jack’s head snapped up.

The latch shifted, slow and careful, like someone trying not to be heard. The window slid open inch by inch, the faint whisper of wood against the frame a soft screech. He didn’t move as he watched carefully. 

A foot appeared first, cautiously testing the edge of the sill. Then another leg followed, swinging over with more confidence. The figure slipped inside with practiced ease. Jack’s jaw tightened.

He had always known a one-story house was a bad idea. At the time, it had seemed harmless and convenient, even. But now, watching this unfold, he felt that old thought return with a sharper edge. He just hadn’t expected it to become this kind of problem.

He stayed where he was, silent, watching.

You shuffled across the plush carpet, your steps light but careless, like you thought the house was asleep. There was a faint smirk tugging at your lips, the kind that came from getting away with something small, something harmless, something you thought no one would notice. Your hand reached out, fingers brushing along the wall until you found the chain for the closet light.

The small bulb flickered on, casting a dull glow across the room. The smirk dropped instantly, like it had never been there at all when you noticed him. 

Jack didn’t move. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, watching you with a look that was far too calm.

“Busted.”

Neither one of you could have pointed to the exact moment it went wrong. You only that it had, and that lately, it always seemed to. The arguments didn’t have clear beginnings anymore. They just… existed, simmering under the surface until something small cracked them wide open. 

Jack found himself wondering, not for the first time, when conversations had stopped being conversations. When every exchange turned into a standoff. When every question turned into an accusation. He stood there now, watching you pace, arms tight, voice sharp, and there was a disorienting sense of unfamiliarity that settled over him. This wasn’t how he remembered you. 

Somewhere between scraped knees and bedtime stories, between school pickups and quiet car rides, something had shifted. He just couldn’t figure out when, or how, or why he hadn’t seen it happening in real time.

The overhead light had been turned on at some point and cast everything in stark detail. Between shouts and snaps, Jack noticed the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw clenched before you spoke, the restless energy in your movements. Jack noticed all of it, and it unsettled him more than the words themselves. Because beneath the anger, beneath the defiance, there was something else there. Something he didn’t recognize, or maybe something he didn’t want to name. 

Independence, sure. Frustration, obviously. But there was a hardness to it now, a sharp edge that hadn’t been there before. And that’s what he couldn’t place. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, buying himself a second, trying to piece together how the kid he knew had become someone who looked at him like this. Like he was on the outside of something he didn’t even realize he’d been pushed out of.

“I just don’t get why you’re riding my ass,” you snapped, your voice cutting through the room as you crossed your arms tighter, your foot hitting the floor with a force that made the sound echo. It wasn’t just irritation. All of it was layered, built up for weeks, like this argument had been waiting for an excuse to come out. “It’s like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”

Jack let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it came out rougher than he intended. He pushed himself to stand, unable to sit still anymore, his body mirroring the agitation in his thoughts.

“You’re out however late with God knows who,” he shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night, toward everything he couldn’t see or control. “And you expect me to just ignore it? Pretend that’s normal?”

“We’re on base,” you fired back instantly, your expression twisting with frustration, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “This place would go DEFCON 2 before they let me out of here. I’m not disappearing into some sketchy part of town.”

“That’s not the point,” Jack said, more forcefully now, though even as he spoke, he could feel the conversation slipping away from him. It wasn’t landing the way he wanted it to. Nothing was. 

“You’re sixteen,” he repeated, slower this time, like maybe grounding it in something factual would help. “Sixteen. You don’t have any reason to be out until four in the morning.” He stopped pacing, turning fully toward you, searching your face for something familiar. “Where have you been? That’s all I’m asking.”

“And I’m not telling you.”

The immediacy of it hit him harder than the words themselves. Something in his chest tightened as his mind ran to the darkest parts of the world he could think of. He’d seen some shit in his time, lost his leg in the process. A rough recovery, but a recovery nonetheless. There’d be a slimmer chance of recovery if you were smoking something out of a pipe under a bridge.

“You and Mom have this stupid fucking plan for my life,” you continued, the words coming faster now, spilling over themselves before you could stop them. “And I’m sorry I can’t live up to it. Maybe one of my four older siblings would’ve been better, but you got stuck with me instead.”

Jack didn’t react right away. He couldn’t.

The words didn’t just land, they lodged themselves in his chest. For a second, it felt like the room had tilted, like something fundamental had shifted under his feet. Four lives that had never made it far enough to become anything more than quiet grief and whispered conversations late at night. Small plaques on boxes that were the first things packed away during every Change of Station. He had spent years convincing himself he’d processed those losses, that he’d filed it away into something manageable, something that didn’t bleed into the life he still had standing right in front of him.

He swallowed, but it didn’t help. There was a hollow, sinking feeling in his chest, like something had been pulled loose without warning. And layered on top of that, more confusing, was the question that kept circling back, louder each time: Where did that come from? Not just the comment. The thought. The idea that you believed it. That you had been carrying it long enough for it to come out like that. 

He searched your face again, this time more intently, as if the answer might be written there somewhere. But all he saw was anger and frustration. A kind of exhaustion that didn’t belong to a sixteen-year-old.

And that scared him more than anything else.

You kept going, words tumbling out faster now, fueled by momentum and emotion you clearly hadn’t meant to release all at once. 

“I’m tired of it! Okay?” you said, your voice rising, cracking at the edges despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. You started pacing, mirroring him without realizing it, hands moving as you talked. “I’m not a baby. I don’t need fucking rainbows on my walls and on every single thing I own. I don’t need you hovering over every decision I make like I’m going to break if you let go for five minutes. I can go out with my friends and come back in one piece. I can do what I want when I wa—”

“Enough.”

The word cut through everything with a precision that neither of you could ignore.

Both of you turned toward the doorway. Your mother stood there, one hand gripping the frame, her posture rigid in a way that made it clear she had been listening longer than either of you realized. Her eyes were glassy, tears gathered but held in place, her expression caught somewhere between hurt and resolve. She looked at both of you, but there was something heavier behind her gaze. 

“Jack,” she said, her voice steady in a way that only made it more serious. “Take the door off.”

For a moment, Jack didn’t move. Not because he disagreed, but because he was still trying to catch up. Still trying to reconcile the conversation he thought they were having with the one that had actually unfolded. Still stuck on that one sentence, echoing louder than everything else.

“You can’t do th—” you started, the fight still there, though thinner now.

She nodded once, cutting you off without raising her voice. “No keys. No phone. No car.” Each word was deliberate, measured. “You’re home by five every night. You leave for school, and you come back on the bus.”

“Mom! That’s so unf—”

“You want to act like you’re grown?” she interrupted, sharper now, stepping further into the room. “Then you can start acting like it. You’re old enough for a job. You buy your own groceries. You pay a portion of the bills. You go to school. It’s up to you.”

“Mo—” Your voice faltered, just slightly.

She didn’t soften. Not this time. Even as a tear finally slipped free, tracking down her cheek, her expression held firm. “Do you want to keep going?”

The room fell quiet again.

But this time, the silence wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything that hadn’t been said soon enough and everything that had been said too late.

“You will not disrespect me in my home,” she said, and this time her voice wavered, just enough to betray the strain underneath. “If you don’t want to go to school, fine. Then you won’t live under this roof.” She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides. “I want your decision in the morning.”

The moment just… ended, without resolution, without comfort. Just three people standing in the same room, separated by something none of them knew how to cross.

The house settled into a tense, fragile standoff for the next four days.

It wasn’t loud. There were no more shouting matches, no slammed doors. It was quieter than that. Like everyone was moving around something sharp, trying not to make it worse.

Jack and his wife went to work each day like nothing had changed, slipping into routines that suddenly felt rehearsed. They spoke in low voices in the mornings, exchanged glances over coffee that said more than either of them wanted to admit out loud. They kept close tabs without making it obvious, checking the time you got home, noticing the way your shoes lined up by the door, the absence of late-night movement in the house.

The weirdest part was that you had adjusted. 

You’d shaped up without a word. No arguments. No complaints. No attitude.

When they asked about your decision, you ignored them both. You sat at the table, flipping through a worn copy of Nietzsche, the pages turning at a steady pace that looked convincing enough. But neither of them missed the way your eyes didn’t track the lines, the way your gaze drifted too often, unfocused. You weren’t reading.

Every afternoon, the same pattern repeated. The bus would hiss to a stop outside, and you’d step off without looking back, your shoulders squared, your expression neutral to the point of emptiness. You’d walk into the house, drop your bag by the wall, and head straight for your room, pausing only long enough to push aside the thin curtain that had replaced your door.

Jack hated it more with each passing day.

It swayed slightly every time you passed through it, a poor imitation of privacy, offering none of the separation it pretended to. It didn’t block sound. Didn’t hold space. It was a reminder, constant and visible, of the line that had been drawn.

You stayed in there until dinner every night.

The three Abbots ate in near silence each night, the clink of silverware against plates sounding louder than it should. Jack would glance up every so often, watching you without meaning to, searching for some sign that this wasn’t as bad as it felt. But you kept your head down, movements precise and efficient. You ate what was given to you, drank your water, and when you were finished, you stood without a word, carried your plate to the sink, rinsed it, and left it to dry.

Your light was off by seven every night, just like she’d said.

That’s when it got worse.

Because Jack just couldn’t believe how much that door had done to muffle everything before. He hadn’t realized how much sound it absorbed, how much it softened, how much it hid. Now there was nothing between him and the reality of it.

The first night, he thought he imagined it. The second night, he knew he hadn’t.

Quiet sniffles, barely there at first. The kind you might miss if you weren’t listening for them. But once he noticed, he couldn’t un-hear it. Couldn’t ignore the uneven rhythm of your breathing, the soft, broken sounds that carried too easily through the thin barrier of fabric.

Each time, something in his chest tightened, sharper than before. By the second night, the third since the fight, he couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the covers off abruptly, the motion sudden in the otherwise still room. His feet hit the floor, already moving before he could talk himself out of it. He didn’t make it very far before his wife’s hand shot out, gripping his bicep firm enough to stop him. He froze, looking down at her in the dim light, confusion and frustration written plainly across his face. 

“Let them cry it out,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but steady in its intent.

Jack stared at her, incredulous. “Like an infant?” he whispered back, the words edged with disbelief. It felt wrong. It was wrong. This wasn’t the same thing.

She shifted closer, curling into his side, her grip loosening but not disappearing entirely. “They’ll understand eventually,” she said quietly, though there was something heavier behind it. “Just like you will.”

He stood there for a beat, listening to the little cries and whimpers that were slowly quieted as you drifted to sleep. Then slowly, reluctantly, he sat back down. Pulled the covers over himself again. Stared up at the ceiling while the quiet sounds from down the hall continued, softer now, but no less present.

By night five, Jack was unraveling. He lay on his side, his pillow wrapped tightly around his head in a futile attempt to block it out. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. Because every small sound felt like it was being dragged straight through him, carving something raw and aching in its wake.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight, trying to ignore it.

When his wife shifted beside him and got out of bed, he barely registered it at first. He assumed she was heading to the bathroom judging by the quiet creak of the floorboards. 

Then her voice, softer than he’d heard it in days. “What’s wrong, honey?”

The response came instantly in the form of a loud, unfiltered sob that ripped from somewhere deep. It hit Jack like a physical blow, sharp and immediate, knocking the breath from his chest. He sat up slightly, his heart pounding, every instinct screaming at him to go in there, to fix it, to do something.

“I’m sorry,” you blubbered, the words breaking apart as they came, thick with tears. “I’m sorry, mommy.”

“Hm, mommy?” Mrs. Abbot teased gently, and he could hear the shift in her tone. The bed creaked as she settled beside you, the quiet sounds of movement telling him she’d pulled you close. “I don’t hate you, honey.”

“I said some really fucked up shit,” you admitted, your voice muffled now, like your face was pressed into something. 

Jack closed his eyes, his grip tightening around the pillow until his knuckles ached. He turned his face into it, but it didn’t stop anything. Tears slipped free anyway, quiet and steady, tracking down his temples and pooling in his ears. He didn’t bother wiping them away. 

“Shhhh,” she cooed softly, her voice low and steady, the way it used to be when you were younger, when comfort came easier. “I know you may not think so, but I remember what it was like to be your age.” There was a faint rustle, like she was smoothing your hair back, grounding you in the moment. “Things are changing. Things feel weird. You’re stuck between wanting to be a kid… but needing independence at the same time.”

You sniffled, trying to catch your breath, the sound uneven and raw.

“Did you know I ran away?” she added after a beat, her tone almost thoughtful, like she was reaching back into something she didn’t visit often.

“What?” you asked, the word small, disbelieving, like it didn’t quite fit with the version of her you knew.

“Mm-hm,” Mrs. Abbot murmured, gentle but certain. “I did.” There was the faintest hint of a sad smile in her voice now. “Packed a bag, waited until everyone was asleep, climbed right out my window just like you did.” She let out a quiet breath, like the memory carried more weight than she usually let on. “It felt exciting at first. Free. Like I’d finally gotten out from under everything.”

Jack shifted slightly in bed, staring into the dark, listening more closely now. This wasn’t a story he’d ever heard before. 

“It was fun for the first day,” she continued softly. “I thought I had it all figured out. No rules, no one telling me what to do.” Her hand must’ve stilled for a moment, because the room felt quieter somehow. He could picture her staring at nothing, lost somewhere in the past. “Then I realized I had no way to make money. Nothing to my name. No plan beyond just… leaving.”

You shifted, the fabric of the bed creasing softly beneath you.

“My parents didn’t even notice I was gone, y’know,” she added, quieter now.

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly at that. He had never been particularly fond of his in-laws. Their hands-off, almost indifferent way of parenting had always rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn’t imagine not noticing. 

“I was gone for a week, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dipping just enough to show how much that memory still lingered. “A whole week.” Another sniffle broke through, yours this time, softer now but no less present. “I didn’t think much of it back then. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t need them to notice.”

“But I did,” she admitted quietly. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

“I never really thought about it again,” she continued, her voice steadier now, though still soft, “until I realized you were sneaking out.” There was a faint shift, like she pulled you closer, anchoring you there with her. “And then all I could think about was you out there. Alone. Thinking you had it all under control… and not realizing how quickly that can fall apart.”

Jack swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest aching with something he couldn’t quite put a name to. He could hear the fear in his wife’s voice. 

“All of the things I saw in those four days…” she trailed off, her voice catching just slightly. “I just imagined you there. Seeing those things. Running into the kinds of people I did, thinking you’re fine until you’re not.” Her hand must’ve moved again. “And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t reach you.”

Your breathing hitched again, quieter now, like you were trying not to cry as hard.

“I love you, honeybee,” she said finally, the words simple but heavy with everything behind them.

Jack pressed his face further into the pillow, his eyes burning, his chest tight in a way that made it hard to breathe evenly.

“We’re not always going to see eye to eye,” she continued softly, her voice steady in a way that wrapped around you instead of pushing against you. “And maybe we do have too tight a leash on you sometimes.” Her hand moved gently, absentmindedly, like she was smoothing your hair the way she had when you were little. “But I want you to know that I love you. Your dad loves you.” There was the faintest pause, and then a small, almost amused exhale. “He’s been trying to take you out for ice cream for days, and I keep telling him no.” 

Even through the tears, a weak, breathy response slipped out of you. “Rude.”

Jack let out a quiet, broken huff into his pillow at that, something between a laugh and a sob. He hadn’t realized she’d noticed. Or that she’d stopped him on purpose. He pressed his eyes shut tighter, the sting behind them only growing.

“And what you said…” she went on, her tone shifting just slightly—not harsher, but heavier, more deliberate. “About my miscarriages…” Her hand stilled for a moment, like she was choosing her next words carefully, holding them with care before letting them go. “Do you know what got me through them?”

You didn’t answer. 

“The fact that I got you,” she said gently. 

Jack’s breath hitched.

“Did you know you were born smiling?” she added, a softness creeping into her voice that hadn’t been there all week. 

There was a quiet, incredulous sniff from you. “What?”

“Mm-hm,” she hummed, and this time there was a smile in it, faint but real. “Your dad says you came out smiling before you even cried. Scared the nurses half to death.” She let out a quiet, fond breath. “They kept checking you, making sure everything was okay. But you were fine. Just… happy to be here.”

In the dark, Jack’s face crumpled.

He remembered that moment with startling clarity, a memory he’d never forget and relive each time he thought about it. He’d laughed, shaky and overwhelmed, while everyone else hovered in concern.

“Every bump and bruise you got,” she continued, her voice softer now, drifting into something almost reflective, “every scraped knee, every time you came home with dirt on your clothes and that look on your face like you’d just conquered something…” Her fingers moved again, gentle, grounding. “The stitches. The casts. All of it.”

You shifted slightly, your breathing evening out just a little as you listened.

“They remind me,” she said quietly, “that you are strong. That you’re capable of picking yourself back up, no matter what knocks you down.” A pause. “That hasn’t changed.”

The room fell into a softer silence this time.

Jack lay there, unmoving, the pillow still pressed to his face though he wasn’t trying to block anything out anymore. He just listened, every word settling into him, reshaping something he hadn’t realized had gone so rigid.

“Go to sleep,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, baby.”