Page 5 of Military Daddies' Nanny

Live a little.

Chapter 2

Drew

The harsh clinks of cutlery hitting glass plates reverberate in the quiet dining room. I look around the table at my family, feeling the weight of the silence. My daughter, Bella, is thirteen. She sits with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face devoid of any emotion, and her eyes staring blankly at her plate.

Next to her, my son, Jason, who is nine, eats slowly, each bite methodical and careful. Jason has brown hair like me, but Bella is a redhead like her mother. I can't help but notice that Bella's cellphone sits untouched beside her plate, a symbol of her isolated social life.

Usually, kids are excited to text their friends and need to be told to put their phones away. Not Bella.

Bella's eyes are dull, devoid of the spark they once held. I remember when she used to come home excited to share every detail of her day. Now, it's like she's built a wall around herself, shutting everyone out.

Is she lonely?

The thought gnaws at me, making my chest tighten.

Jason's movements are slow and deliberate, each bite of food a painstaking process. He's always been a careful eater, butthis feels different. There's a rigidity to his actions, a sense of obligation rather than enjoyment.

Does he even like what I made for dinner?

The dining room feels stifling, the silence pressing down on us. The clinking of utensils is the only sound, each noise amplified in the oppressive quiet. I glance at the family photos on the wall, reminders of happier times.

When did things get so bad?

Jason finishes a bite and pauses, his fork hovering over his plate. His eyes flicker up for a moment, meeting mine, before quickly darting back down. That brief connection is enough to make my heart ache.

I shift my gaze to my brother, Nathan, who is seated across from me. Nathan has always been the quieter one. The thinker. He's watching the kids with that familiar furrow in his brow, his hazel eyes filled with concern.

His auburn hair, a shade darker than Bella's, falls slightly into his face, and he pushes it back with an absent-minded gesture. Nathan has always had a lean, muscular build, honed during his years in the military, but he carries himself with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with my own stern demeanor.

Nathan catches my eye and gives me a knowing look, one that speaks volumes without a single word. I frown, not wanting to address it just yet. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken words and shared worries.

We've always had this silent communication, a bond forged through years of shared experiences and mutual understanding.Growing up, Nathan and I were inseparable. Despite our differences, we complemented each other perfectly.

I was the disciplined, serious one, while Nathan brought a sense of calm and perspective. In the military, we looked out for each other, and that bond only strengthened. Now, as we navigate raising my kids together, that connection is both a blessing and a curse. He sees through me, knows when I'm struggling, and pushes me to face things I'd rather avoid.

But Nathan's not one to back down easily. He sighs quietly, his expression softening as he watches me. I appreciate his concern, even if it's frustrating. He's always been the steady hand, the voice of reason.

Trying to break the silence, I clear my throat. "So, how was school today?" I ask, aiming for a cheerful tone.

Bella responds with a flat, "Fine," not bothering to look up. I feel a twinge of frustration.

She used to be so chatty.

Jason, after a pause, says, "Was okay." His focus is still on his plate. His voice is so soft that I have to strain to hear him.

I press on, determined to get more than monosyllables. "Were your classes interesting?" I ask, hoping for any spark of enthusiasm.

Jason nods slightly. "Math was good," he says softly.

At least it's something.

But it’s still not enough. Bella shrugs, "They were okay." Her tone is dismissive, her face a mask of indifference. It's like talking to a wall.

The silence stretches again, and I feel the weight of it pressing down on me.

Come on, Drew, think of something.

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