Page 94 of Salute, To Bravery
Craig rolls into our room, every movement deliberate. His shoulders are tense, jaw set, but his eyes—those eyes—are full of pain. I instinctively start to rise, ready to help him with the transition to the bed, but he lifts a hand to stop me. Not angry—just asking for the space to do it on his own.
After I left this morning, I went for a long run. Longer than I’ve done in years. My lungs burned, and my legs ached, but I needed it. Needed to run from the image of him hovering over me, hands clenched around my throat. Needed to run from the panic that still hadn’t settled in my chest.
I never thought it would happen to us.
I’d heard the stories—PTSD, flashbacks, sleep violence. Other wives at the support group talked about locking themselves in separate bedrooms or gently waking their husbands with long sticks or cold washcloths. But that was other people’s trauma.
It wasn’t supposed to be mine.
By the time I came back, he was gone. Probably grateful I was too.
The silence between us now is heavy. He parks next to the bed, rests his arms in his lap. For a long moment, he doesn’t say a word. Then he looks at me, and I see it—all of it. The shame. The guilt. The weight he’s been carrying alone.
“I want you to understand how much I love and value you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Not just for everything you’re carrying right now—but for being a mother to our kids. For being the reason I want to fight through this. You… you’re their anchor. You’re mine too.”
Tears gather at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall.
His voice breaks a little as he continues. “Losing Brandon wrecked me. He died right in front of me. I’ve seen death before, but not like that. Not him.”
I stay quiet. I won’t interrupt. I can’t. If I say a single word, I’m afraid he’ll shut down, and I don’t want to lose this moment.
“And then almost losing Rei…” His eyes glass over, and a tear slips down his cheek. “It felt like pieces of me were getting torn away.” His gaze meets mine, earnest and pleading. “I will fight for us, Jane. If that’s what you want—if there’s still a chance—I’ll fight for this every damn day.”
My breath catches. “I do,” I whisper. The words come from somewhere deep inside, past the bruises and fear, past the shock and the doubts.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and reach for him. Our embrace is careful, awkward even, but none of that matters. My hands find his face, and our lips meet—soft at first, tentative. But it builds, fuelled by aching need and everything we haven’t said.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice a raw confession. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I climb onto his lap, careful of the lines and bandages still healing beneath his clothes. It isn’t sexual—it’s something else. Something deeper. I just want to be near him, want to remind myself that this man is still my husband.
“I miss you,” I breathe.
“I know,” he whispers, burying his face in my neck. “I’m starting therapy again. I have to. I should have sooner.”
We hold each other like the floor beneath us might give way.
“I was so scared,” I finally say, voice barely audible. “You weren’t there. You weren’t you.”
His grip on me tightens for just a moment.
“I don’t remember all of it,” he says. “Some nights… it’s like a puzzle with pieces missing most of it I couldn’t tell you anyway. I want to let you in, Jane, but I don’t know how yet. I need time.”
I nod. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and break this fragile window of truth. “Okay,” I say softly. “Just don’t shut me out.”
We sit like that for a while—his arms wrapped around me, my head resting on his shoulder, the television long forgotten. The tension between us eases, replaced with something quieter. Not resolution exactly, but maybe a truce. A moment of grace.
Eventually, I feel him shift beneath me. He lets out a quiet grunt as he adjusts his posture and glances toward the dresser. “I should get my dressings changed before bed,” he says, almost apologetically.
It takes me a second to pull myself out of the moment—to remember the reality of it all. The scars. The surgeries. The routine that’s become second nature to him now.
I slide off his lap slowly, careful not to jostle him. “Do you want me to help?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He gives me a small, appreciative smile. “I know you want to. But when everything else feels out of my control… this is something I need to do myself.”
There’s no defensiveness in his voice, only quiet honesty. I nod and pull my legs up onto the bed, folding them beneath me as I watch him roll to the side table where he’s stashed the medical supplies.
The room is filled with soft sounds—tape peeling, antiseptic being opened, the rustle of clean gauze. I keep my eyes on him, studying the steady rhythm of his hands. There’s a tenderness in the way he cleans the incisions, as if he’s trying to repair more than just the wounds on his skin.
