Page 3 of Misery In Me

“Temporary childcare,” I mutter under my breath. I hate the sound of those words. But I know she’s right. I can’t do this by myself. I can’tkeepdoing this by myself.

I reach for the papers, my mind already spinning with everything I need to do. How do I even begin to figure out a “stable environment” when I’ve spent most of my life in places that are anything but stable?

“Thank you, Donovan,” the admin says as I stand up. “And remember, no one’s expecting you to have all the answers right now. You just need to take the first step.”

I nod, trying to hide the doubt gnawing at me. But there’s no turning back now.

TWO

GAGE

I can’t sleep.

The bedroom is too quiet. The sound of the clock ticking in the living room is too loud. It echoes in the back of my mind, reminding me that the longer I wait, the more I’m sinking deeper into this unknown.She should have fucking told me she got pregnant.I would have been angry, but at least I could have made a plan.But she didn’t.And now, here I am, staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to Zoe’s soft cries echoing from the other room.

Fuck.

I drag myself out of bed, rubbing my eyes. The light from the hallway floods the room like a slap to my face. Everything is too bright. Everything is too real. I’m afathernow. Not just a Marine. Not just the guy who takes orders and gets shit done. I have a daughter.

A daughter.

I feel a wave of guilt wash over me, but I shove it down. There’s no room for guilt right now. There’s no room for self-pity. I have to figure this out.I have to.No one’s going to do it for me.

I step into the hallway, walking toward the nursery right next to my room. The soft hum of a baby monitor fills the air, and I can hear her. Sweet little Zoe Jane. Still crying. Her tiny voice, so fragile and full of need, pulls at something inside me I can’t quite identify.

That’s gotta be the primal instinct kicking in, right? That biological need to care for your young.

I reach the door and push it open slowly, careful not to make too much noise. There she is—wrapped in a pale pink blanket in the crib I put together. Her face scrunched up in discomfort. Her little hands flail in the air like she’s trying to grab onto something that’ll make the pain stop. I feel a pang in my chest, like someone’s twisted a K-BAR just under my ribs.

I don’t know what to do.

I’m a Marine, not a damn babysitter. I’ve fought in wars, led teams through firefights, and done things I’d rather forget. But holding a crying baby? Hell, this is new territory for me.

I step closer to the crib, my feet padding softly across the floor. I reach for her, hesitating for a split second before I lift her into my arms. She’s so small. So fragile. It’s like holding a piece of glass. I sit down in the glider, trying to remember everything I’ve seen the guys do when they’ve had kids, but it’s all a blur.What the fuck do I do?I don’t know how to make her stop crying.

I try humming. I try rocking back and forth, slow and steady, but she’s not having it. She wails louder, her little fists pounding against my bare chest. It makes me want to tear my hair out. I’ve faced worse than this. I’ve held my ground in situations where everything was on the line, but this?

This makes me feel like I’m failing already.

“Shh,” I mutter, rocking her a little faster. “Come on, Zoe. It’s okay. I got you.”

But I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. And I’m terrified she knows it.

At the age of thirty, my only interactions with children have been forced, perfunctory high fives with the kids of the guys in my unit during those dreadful family days. It always felt strained and uncomfortable.

Her cries start to slow, but they don’t stop. I feel like a damn failure. I lean back in the chair, rubbing her back in a slow, rhythmic motion. Slowly, her body starts to relax, her cries tapering off into soft hiccups. I glance down at her, her little face still scrunched up, eyes closed, lips trembling.

I keep rocking, keep whispering, and keep trying, but the truth sinks in. I’m not ready for this. Not in any way that matters. I don’t know how todothis. And it’s not just Zoe I’m worried about. It’s me. What the hell kind of father am I going to be? I’m barely hanging on.

Despite holding her close, the vast emptiness of the house presses in on me—a cold, hollow feeling that no amount of warmth could overcome. The pressure of what’s ahead weighs on me, and I know I can’t do it. The Corps isn’t going to bail me out of this one.I need answers. I need advice from someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

I grab my phone from the side table and dial the one person I know will understand.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I need to talk to someone.

“Hey, Gage,” comes the familiar voice of Staff Sergeant Victor Morales, my best friend. “Everything good?”

“Not really,” I mutter, cradling Zoe against my chest. The thought of admitting I don’t know what I’m doing makes my stomach turn. But that’s where I am. “Do you have a minute?”

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