Chapter 1

The morning light spilled across the kitchen counter, casting a warm glow on the neatly arranged sandwiches, fruit cups, and carrot sticks. I sighed, feeling the absence of a third lunch that no longer needed making. Olivia"s departure for college had left a hollow space in both the kitchen and my heart.

"Mom, where"s my history book?" Christine"s voice brought me back from the edge of melancholy as she bounded into the kitchen, her ponytail swinging with youthful energy.

"Did you check the living room?" I suggested, sealing the last sandwich with practiced finality.

"Found it!" she proclaimed seconds later, returning to grab an apple from the bowl on the table. Alex followed closely behind; his eyes were still sleepy, but a soft smile played on his lips. He mumbled a grateful "Thanks, Mom," before digging into his cereal.

I glanced at the clock, tension knotting in my stomach. Any minute now, Matt would be coming down. The anticipation felt like waiting for thunder after the flash of lightning. And then, there it was—the rhythmic thud of crutches on the upstairs floorboards.

Matt appeared at the top of the stairs, his jaw set in a hard line, eyes narrowed with a familiar frustration. Every step seemed to echo his bitterness, a stark reminder of the price he paid on duty—with me by his side, unable to prevent the irreversible.

"Good morning," I said, my voice treading a fine line between casual and cautious.

"Is it really?" Matt"s response was terse and acidic. He descended the last step with a graceless thump of wood against the tile.

"Sit down; I"ll get you some coffee," I offered, reaching for the pot.

"I"m not hungry," he snapped, maneuvering awkwardly to the table, the crutches clattering against the chair legs.

"Matt, you need to eat something," I pressed, feeling the weight of his dark mood pressing in around us.

"Stop mothering me," he retorted, a scowl etched deep into his features. His anger was a palpable force, charging the air between us.

"Maybe if you didn"t act like a child—" The words slipped out before I could stop them, igniting the kindling of our constant conflict.

"Act like a child? I"m not the one who needs to fill the silence with pointless chatter because they can"t handle their daughter leaving for college!"

His words stung, finding their mark with brutal precision. I gripped the edge of the counter, feeling the sting of tears threatening behind my eyes. I wanted to scream, to unleash the storm of emotions that whirled within me—grief for Olivia"s absence, guilt over Matt"s injury that caused him to lose a part of his leg, the suffocating helplessness.

"Maybe if you"d try to see past your own pain, you"d realize we"re all hurting," I managed through clenched teeth, my heart pounding with fury and sorrow.

"Save it. I"m not the one falling apart," he shot back, the venom in his voice cutting through the remnants of family harmony like a knife.

"Mom, Matt, please stop," Christine"s plea broke through our escalating war of words, pulling us back from the brink.

"Sorry, sweetheart," I murmured, deflated, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had surged. It wasn"t their battle to bear.

"Me too," Matt muttered, though his apology was directed more at the floor than Christine or me.

The kids gathered their things, escaping the battleground that our home had become. I watched them go, each step away from us a tiny ache, and wondered how many mornings we could endure before we were nothing but fragments, held together by habit and shared history rather than love and understanding.

That"s when my phone vibrated on the counter. I grabbed it, relieved to be pulled away from our conversation. The past couple of months hadn"t been easy on us. We were fighting a lot, and I felt so guilty every time because I knew he was struggling. Matt"s son, Elijah, had been at his grandmother"s for a few weeks, and we didn't know when he would be back. Matt hadn"t had the energy to be a father to him since he was shot on duty and lost his leg. But it was painful to watch how Elijah still tried to connect with his dad, but Matt wouldn"t let him in. He didn"t like for his son to see him like this.Our three-year-old, Angel, had been spending a lot of time at my mom's house lately and was there for a few days now, giving me the extra time and space to take care of Matt or at least help him the best I could. He was going to rehabilitation five days of the week but still not making a lot of progress. His physical therapist, Dan, said it was hard to keep him motivated.

I picked up my phone, the weight of the situation heavy on my shoulders. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Hello?" I answered, my voice betraying my worry.

It was Emily on the other end of the line, a friend I had met at the support group I had recently joined to help me navigate this new situation. She understood the unique pain that came with being a spouse or relative of someone who had been injured in war or on the job. Her voice trembled with concern and disbelief as she began speaking.

"Hey, it"s me," she started, her words faltering slightly. "Something"s happened… to Sarah Chapman."

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of Sarah"s name. In the support group sessions, Sarah and I had connected on a level that felt profound. We shared our fears, our frustrations, and our journey toward healing. She appeared fragile and vulnerable, but beneath that facade was a strength I knew she could use to make it if only she stayed sober, which she had been good at lately.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She… she was arrested last night. For murder."