Page 24 of The Promises We Broke
The innocent wisdom hit me like a physical blow. This child, this ten-year-old who should have grown up knowing his uncle, was defining courage for me like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"I guess it is," I said quietly.
"Can I sit with you?" Cade asked, already moving toward the empty chair beside me. "Mom said you're hurt and might need help with stuff."
The casual way he offered help, like it was natural and expected in family relationships, made my throat tight. "Sure, buddy. If you want to."
He settled into the chair, immediately launching into a detailed account of his latest baseball game, complete with dramatic reenactments of his best plays. There was no awkwardness, no careful tiptoeing around my past or my guilt. Just a kid excited to finally have the uncle he'd been told about, treating me like I'd always been part of his life.
Around us, the adults moved with practiced efficiency, setting food on the table and arranging chairs to accommodate my casted leg. Normal family dinner preparations. The kind I'd dreamed about during eleven years of eating alone in anonymous diners and truck stops.
"Uncle Gage," Cade said suddenly, his expression growing serious. "Are you sad?"
The question caught me completely off guard. "What makes you ask that?"
"You keep looking like Mom did when Grandpa died. All guilty and worried about stuff that wasn't really your fault." He tilted his head, studying my face with the unfiltered perception of childhood. "Mom said sometimes adults blame themselves for things that aren't actually their fault. That sometimes the real bad guys are really good at making other people feel guilty."
This ten-year-old had just summarized what three adult family members had been trying to tell me for days.
"Sometimes adults do blame themselves," I agreed carefully.
"Well, you shouldn't," Cade said matter-of-factly. "Because Mom and Dad are happy now, and Barrett's here, and youhelped deliver him which makes you basically a superhero. So there's no reason to be sad."
The simple logic of it, the complete absence of blame or complicated adult reasoning, hit me harder than any therapeutic conversation I'd had. Because to Cade, the math was simple. His family was complete and happy. His uncle was home. His baby brother was healthy. End of story.
"Besides," he added, apparently not done dispensing wisdom, "Mom said the person who did the really bad stuff was Grandma Regina, and she's gone now. So everything worked out."
Everything worked out. As if ten years of separation, of missed birthdays and bedtime stories and father-son moments, could be dismissed so easily because the ending was happy.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe holding onto the guilt and regret was stealing from the joy of what we had now.
"You want to see Barrett?" Trace asked, approaching with the carrier. "He's been sleeping since we got here, but he might wake up hungry soon."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Trace carefully lifted the baby from his carrier, supporting his head with practiced ease. Three days of fatherhood had already transformed him into someone confident and natural with his son.
"Here," Trace said, settling Barrett into my good arm. "He likes to be close to someone's chest. Makes him feel secure."
The weight of the baby against me was familiar now, but no less profound. Barrett's tiny hand curled around my finger, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. His face was peaceful in sleep, completely trusting in the safety of his uncle's arms.
"He knows you," Delaney said softly, settling into the chair beside us. "You were the first person to hold him."
The idea that this perfect child might feel safe with me, might somehow know that I'd been there at the moment of his birth, was almost too much to process.
"Tell Uncle Gage about your baseball team," Trace suggested to Cade as Blake and Booker finished setting food on the table.
For the next hour, over a dinner that was warm and chaotic and everything I'd missed about family life, I listened to stories about Little League championships and school projects and the everyday adventures of a ten-year-old boy. Cade treated me like I'd always been part of these conversations, asking my opinion about his batting stance and whether I thought he was ready for travel ball.
Every question was a gift I didn't deserve and couldn't bring myself to refuse.
"So Uncle Gage," Cade said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, "when you're all better, can you teach me how to build stuff? Dad said you're really good at construction."
"I... sure," I said, the promise slipping out before I could consider the implications. "If you want to learn."
"Yeah! I want to build a tree house in the oak tree by the pond. A really good one, with windows and everything."
"That sounds like a big project," I said, my chest tight with emotion.
"That's okay. We'd have lots of time to work on it together." He grinned at me with complete confidence that his uncle would be around for tree house construction, for shared projects, for all the normal uncle things that children took for granted.
