Page 110 of Salute, To Bravery
“Don’t eat the leftover chicken. That’s for dinner tomorrow night!” I yell after her, though I’m not sure she’s even listening anymore.
I lean against the railing, trying to steady myself. I can hear Craig coming from inside the garage, his footsteps getting closer.
And then, as I watch him approach, my heart pounds even faster. His face is still calm, but I can see the question in his eyes. He’s got that look—the one where he’s trying to figure out what’s going on.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice careful, searching.
I hold the test out in front of him, my hand shaking. “I’m pregnant, you asshole!” I blurt out, the words rushing out of me. “Do you have super sperm or something? We’ve been so careful.”
I expect him to panic, to get defensive or say something to brush it off. But instead, he bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
“The hot tub,” he says, his voice full of breathless amusement.
Suddenly, understanding dawns on my face, and I groan in frustration. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! I just started my career. I can’t be pregnant now.”
I see the flicker of concern in his eyes, and despite my frustration, I feel the overwhelming desire to be held by him. I can’t shake the fear, though. The last thing I wanted was to throw our lives into chaos again.
But he doesn’t skip a beat. “We’ll figure it out, Jane,” he says, his voice steady, even as his eyes betray the mix of surprise and excitement in them. “Maybe I’ll even look hot with a baby carrier strapped on.” He grins, trying to lighten the mood.
I manage a weak laugh, though I’m still processing everything. The reality starting to sink in.
I know he’s been through so much, too. The last year has been a brutal one for both of us. After the explosion that changed everything, I’ve watched him fight every day to reclaim a sense of normalcy, to rebuild his life after losing his legs. He’s faced his demons—both physical and mental—with more strength than I ever thought possible.
It’s been a journey. The first few months after we moved to Seattle, he struggled. He spent hours in therapy—physical therapy, mental health therapy—anything that would help him cope. I could see it in his eyes, the way he was determined not to be broken, even when his body felt like it was.
He joined a sled hockey team as part of his recovery. At first, I didn’t think he would make it through a single session. But day by day, I watched him find his rhythm, the physicality of it helping him reclaim some control over his body, his life.
He’s gotten so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally. He’s come a long way from the man I almost lost, both to his injuries and to his own struggles with the trauma. He’s been present in ways I never thought he would be—at every one of our kids’ hockey games, every practice, every birthday. I can see the man he’s becoming, and it fills me with pride and hope.
“I’m here for you, Jane,” Craig whispers, his voice full of emotion as he holds me even tighter, his arms like an anchor. “We’ll figure it out together.”
I nod against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath giving me comfort. I know he means it. He’s been through hell and come out the other side, and if there’s anyone who can weather a storm, it’s him.
We’ll figure it out, I think, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe it.
“We had talked about having more kids… but nothing was planned,” I whisper, my voice shaky as I look up at him, tears still clinging to my lashes.
“I’m here for you, baby. We can do this,” he says softly, his voice full of conviction. “Do you want some ice cream? It makes everything better.”
I let out a small laugh, though it’s still tinged with a mix of emotions. But his words, his presence—they make everything seem a little less overwhelming. For the first time in a longwhile, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we can handle whatever comes next.
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Flying by the Daisy
By
Lee VanBeek
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
