7. Taran

CHAPTER 7

TARAN

Once I reached home, I thanked Mrs. Molder. “Is he in his room?”

“Yes, I peeked in on him about an hour ago. He was reading,” she replied. In her mid-sixties, she had a head full of silver, curly hair, and her peppered, caramel skin was lined with wrinkles. But her eyes were sharp and intelligent.

After saying goodbye to Mrs. Molder, I stood at the door until she entered her own house. Then, I went upstairs to check on Rory.

He wasn’t in his bed. Maybe he was reading in my bedroom. He often did that when I worked late at side jobs to make extra money. I checked my room and the upstairs den. No sign of Rory. “Rory,” I called out. “Where are you?”

No answer. The house was silent, almost eerily so. Had he gone out? Why didn’t Mrs. Molder mention anything? No, that can’t be right; she said Rory had gone to bed. Maybe he’d snuck out without telling her? Mrs. Molder wasn’t that old, but she could have dozed off while watching one of her favorite animal documentaries. Opening the back door, I called out Rory’s name again.

No response.

Fear washed over me, prickling my skin. Where was my son? Was he safe? Images flashed through my mind—someone could have broken into the house to kidnap him, or maybe he’d stepped out and been taken away. Sweat broke out across my forehead, and my heart raced as adrenaline kicked in.

Where the heck was my boy?

Stepping inside, I took out my phone, ready to call the cops. Just as I was about to dial, my gaze fell on the thin strip of light shining under the basement door.

I yanked the door open. “Rory!”

“Yeah, Dad!”

His strong voice sent a wave of relief through my panicked nerves.

“What are you doing down there? I nearly had a heart attack—I couldn’t find you anywhere.” I headed down the stairs. The basement wasn’t used much. It was more of a dumping ground for things we no longer needed. Many times, I’d thought about selling or throwing away the junk, but I never found the time to sort it all out. “You should be in bed right now.” When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I stopped in my tracks.

My son was holding his papa’s uniform on his lap and wearing the cap.

A lump formed in my throat, and tears prickled at the back of my eyes. Damn it. I shouldn’t have left him alone with the babysitter. Poor kid probably felt lonely.

“Is this Papa’s uniform?” he asked.

“Yes.” I sat down on a wooden crate next to him, fingering the material. “It’s his. What are you doing with these things?”

Rory’s dark brown eyes held an emotion I’d never seen before. His lips trembled as he pointed to a file tucked under the uniform. “You… you never told me he committed suicide.”

My world spun and then stopped so sharply, I thought I might keel over from the shock. Of course, I hadn’t told him that. He was only seven when Royce took two bottles of prescription sleeping pills and passed away in his sleep. How could I tell a mere child that his father had suffered from PTSD? When Royce came back, he wasn’t the same. The blood, the gore, the deaths he’d seen in the field never left him. He couldn’t shake it. Even with therapy, Royce’s nightmares wouldn’t allow him to lead a normal life. He tried hard for two years, but eventually, it became impossible for him to hold a job, to live without being haunted by his demons.

I’d tried to help him, to understand what he was going through, but I always fell short. Royce never said I wasn’t supportive; he appreciated everything I did. While he struggled with his pain, I paid the bills, worked two jobs, and raised a child. But in my own eyes, I was never enough. The guilt would stay with me forever. “He…” I ran a hand over my face. Despite everything, I’d always wanted Rory to see his papa as a hero. And he was—no doubt about that. If he hadn’t been so affected by PTSD, he would’ve been a great father and husband. It wasn’t his fault. I wanted Rory to know that. “He had problems, Rory. The things he saw in war… they were so terrible he couldn’t forget them. Yes, he committed suicide, but it wasn’t because he didn’t love you or me. He loved us very much.”

Tears sparkled in Rory’s eyes. “If he hadn’t done it… he’d still be here with us.”

“Oh, baby.” I wrapped him in my arms. “He loved you so much. You were his whole life. But he was sick. It was a disease, and in the end, he couldn’t fight it anymore.”

He sobbed, clutching his father’s clothes tightly. “But he could have tried harder.”

“He tried very hard, sweetie. He really did his best. But he was so sick.” I fought my own tears. “Remember when you got the lead role in your class play? He was so proud. Even though he hadn’t slept all night, he made it to your play and clapped the loudest.”

Rory nestled into me. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And when you were sick with a high fever and vomiting, he carried you to the hospital because the car was broken. He was very unwell then too, but he still wanted to take care of you.”

Rory nodded. “I miss him.”

Now, I couldn’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. “I miss him too, baby. A lot. He’s always in my thoughts. I wish he were here with us. Things would be different… but he’s not… and we have to keep going and stay strong.”

“I try to be strong, Dad, but sometimes I cry.”

I kissed the top of his head, feeling the prickle of his short hair against my lips and cheeks. My sweet, sweet boy. He was such a good kid. If Royce were here, he’d be so proud of our son. “Crying is good, because it reminds us that we loved someone very much. We loved your papa a lot. I remember when you wanted your own clubhouse, and he spent his whole vacation building it for you.”

“I still use it.” Even though he’d outgrown it ages ago, Rory could still often be found there, reading or just sitting and thinking.

I didn’t have the heart to give it away.

“He used to do a lot for you.” I told Rory stories about his father, about all the little things Royce would make a point to do for him whenever he had the time. Though Royce couldn’t spend as much time as he wanted with our son, he tried to be a good father. We sat there on the cold basement floor, going through Royce’s clothes and old books. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t thrown any of this stuff away. If I had, Rory wouldn’t have known so many little things about his father. He wouldn’t know that Royce always kept a handkerchief in his pocket, or about his legendary CD collection. That he’d saved all our love letters and pictures of this little family. One day, I’d sit with Rory and tell him about Royce’s twin sister, who died long before Rory was born.

“Tomorrow is a school day, kiddo. You need to sleep.” I tucked everything back into the suitcase and stood up. “Come on, let’s go.” After leading him upstairs, I tucked him in and sat with him for a while, even though I felt exhausted. When the time was right, I’d sit with him again and talk about Royce. I wanted Rory to understand that his papa may have lost the will to live, but he never lost his love for us. Now that Rory knew the truth, it felt even more important to reinforce those good memories.