Chapter 3 - The Choice I Used to Avoid
General Lawson was still calling when I stepped into the corridor.
I answered.
“Parker.”
“Where are you?”
“St. Vincent.”
“Reese?”
“He’s stable.”
“Then I need you back on base.”
Normally, that sentence ended the discussion.
This time it didn’t.
“I can’t come back tonight.”
Silence followed.
Lawson had known me for eleven years.
He knew I never said those words.
“Is something wrong?”
“My former wife is hospitalized.”
“Former?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another pause.
“Life-threatening?”
I looked through the glass toward Sophie.
“I don’t know.”
Lawson’s voice changed.
“Stay there.”
I blinked.
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
“But the readiness review—”
“Will survive without Colonel Parker for twelve hours.”
I almost laughed.
Then he added something quieter.
“People are harder to replace than reports.”
The call ended.
When I returned, Sophie was awake.
“Did the Army collapse?”
“Apparently not.”
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
A nurse brought water.
Sophie managed three sips.
I sat beside her until the room grew dark.
Around midnight, she finally spoke.
“Do you remember our second ultrasound?”
“Yes.”
“The one at sixteen weeks?”
“Yes.”
“You cried.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“One tear.”
“That was allergies.”
“In an ultrasound room?”
“Very aggressive allergies.”
A weak smile touched her mouth.
Then disappeared.
“I remember thinking you were finally letting yourself believe we’d have him.”
My chest tightened.
“Him?”
Sophie looked at me.
“I never told you?”
“No.”
Her face changed.
“The genetic results came back the morning after we lost him.”
I stopped breathing.
“It was a boy.”
For years, our second baby had existed inside my memory without a name, without a face, without even a gender.
Now one word made him painfully real.
A son.
I lowered my head.
Sophie watched me.
“His name would have been Caleb.”
My eyes burned.
“You told me Caleb Parker sounded stupid.”
“I lied.”
Her voice broke.
“I loved it.”
That was when something inside me finally gave way.
I covered my face.
Five years of grief came out without permission.
Not dignified tears.
Not one controlled tear.
I cried until my shoulders shook.
Sophie stared at me.
Then slowly reached across the space between us.
Her fingers touched my wrist.
I lowered my hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“For crying?”
“For not doing it when you needed to know I was hurting too.”
Her eyes filled.
“I thought you didn’t miss them.”
“I missed them every day.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because if I said it out loud, they were really gone.”
Sophie’s face crumpled.
“And I thought your silence meant I was grieving alone.”
We sat there holding hands.
Not as husband and wife.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But for the first time in years, we were grieving the same children in the same room.
At three in the morning, Dr. Patel returned.
The antibiotics were working.
Sophie’s fever was falling.
Then he placed another set of results on the counter.
“There’s something else we need to discuss tomorrow.”
Sophie’s fingers tightened around mine.
I looked at the doctor.
May you like
“What something else?”
His expression told me it wasn’t good news.
