Page 73 of The Summer We Mended
Nora sniffled.“How do you know?”
“Because he’s strong,” Anna said, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads.“And because he loves us more than anything.That kind of love doesn’t get lost.It finds its way home.”
Blaze looked up at her before slinging his arm around his sister’s shoulders.“Will you tell us a story?The one about the lighthouse?”
Anna smiled.“Of course.”
She told it gently, the tale of a little lighthouse that never stopped shining, even through storms and darkness.When she was done, both twins were curled up, their breathing slow and even.
She kissed them each once more.“Goodnight, my sweet loves.Keep sight of the shore.Daddy will find his way back.”
She turned off the light, stepping out into the hallway and gently pulling the door closed behind her.As the latch clicked, she turned—and found her mother standing there.
Lily didn’t speak right away.She simply reached out, wrapping her arms around Anna without needing a reason or invitation.Anna didn’t resist.She leaned into her mother’s embrace, her forehead resting on Lily’s shoulder.
“I heard the story,” Lily whispered, rubbing Anna’s back.“You were perfect.”
Anna’s eyes welled, but she nodded.“I just want to do right by them, but I feel like I completely fumbled that.”
“You didn’t fumble it,” Lily said firmly.“You are doing right by them.You’re a good mom, Anna.There’s no manual for stuff like this and you’re doing great with it.”
They stood like that for a moment longer, then Lily eased back and tucked a strand of hair behind Anna’s ear.
“Go take your shower.I’ll wait out here.No rush.”
Anna smiled softly, the smallest flicker of relief in her expression.She nodded, disappearing into the bathroom.
Lily leaned against the wall, listening to the water run.She said a quiet prayer—not for answers, not even for certainty.Just for peace.For Anna.For the twins.And for the man they all loved.
Whatever storms came next, she would be here.Ready to carry them through.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Anna
The days passed slowly.
Anna felt each one stretching longer than the last, like time itself had grown thick and heavy.She was driving herself crazy, pacing more than normal, unable to sleep, and that was causing her anxiety to get worse on the regular.The silence from overseas was the worst part—no new updates, no reassuring voice on the line, no word from Luke.She went to the beach every morning like normal, and every morning she stared at her phone, willing her husband to call and tell her it was all a misunderstanding, but he hadn’t yet.
Every hour that passed without news gnawed deeper into the pit of her stomach.She told herself again and again that no news was good news, that the military would contact her first if something truly terrible had happened.But the words felt hollow by day three, and now, almost a week later, they echoed uselessly in her chest.
The other families from the Air Force base reached out, too.Some were stationed across the country now, scattered like leaves in the wind, but their messages came anyway.Long voice notes, thoughtful texts, and cards that arrived in the mail, decorated with stickers and handprints from their own children.Anna read them all, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.These women knew.They understood the ache, the fear, the slow bleed of waiting.
Sometimes, she wished she were back on base, surrounded by those who spoke this silent language.But they weren’t there.Not this time.So she clung to the small community that had built itself around her.
The scent of baked bread and roasted chicken drifted through the open kitchen window, mixing with the salt air that rolled off the water.Anna stood at the sink, her hands motionless beneath the warm stream, watching as a car pulled away from the driveway.Another casserole.Another family she didn’t know well, but who’d signed up for the meal train organized by members of the town and a handful of churches—Grace Episcopal, the Federated Church, even the Unitarian Universalists.Each night, someone else showed up with warm food and soft eyes, speaking in the gentle tones people reserved for the grieving.
Earlier that afternoon, a small group of women—mothers and wives, strong in their quiet way—had driven down from Boston.Gold Star Families, they said, introducing themselves one by one at her doorstep.They had lost sons, husbands.Some still had their loved ones and had gone through the same hell of missing in action that Anna was enduring right now.They sat with her in the living room, held her hand, prayed over her.One of them, a woman named Evelyn with silver hair and steady eyes, stayed a little longer after the others had left, squeezing Anna’s hand and saying, “We carry it together now.”
Anna nodded, thankful, deeply moved.She truly was grateful—grateful for the food, the prayers, the cards tucked under her doormat with scripture and poems written in delicate cursive.But as she stood there, water still running, she felt the same ache deep in her chest.No kindness, no casserole, no circle of prayer could reach the part of her that was still waiting for news, for a miracle, forhim.Her heart still hurt—a piece was missing.And she feared it always would.
The outpouring of love and support was great, but it did little to ease the fear that was gnawing at her heart.
She tried to keep it together, especially for the kids.They didn’t need to see her unravel.They needed their mother to be steady, safe, the anchor in the storm that had descended on their home.So, Anna smiled when she could, laughed when she had the strength, and nodded patiently through endless questions about when Daddy would be home.
But there were moments when she drifted.When she stared too long out the window or forgot what she was saying mid-sentence.The weight of the not-knowing curled itself around her like smoke, seeping into everything.
Tom and Margot noticed.So did Lily.
