Having The Soldier's Baby (Parent Portal 1)

She’d spend the rest of her life with the current version of Winston, if that was all that was left of the man she loved, but it was taking its toll.

Not nearly the toll he’d paid, though, losing two years of his life in the Afghan desert. Still, as almost another week passed and the ultrasound loomed only five days away, she drove home Friday knowing that something had to give—at least a little. Either her hope or his reticence. They were facing the first weekend home alone since his return. And they hadn’t even discussed what those two days might look like.

Would he be going to the base? Doing whatever he did there, besides working out? And it wasn’t like he’d even told her he was doing that. She’d seen him carry his gym bag into the house and throw the clothes in the washer. His uniforms, he took to the cleaners. The rest of his clothes she’d washed with hers just as she always had.

She was trying so hard not to push him, but dang, nothing seemed to be changing. They were living in a stagnant unrealistic world that wasn’t going to be a healthy environment in which to bring a baby.

If only she’d waited a couple of weeks to have herself inseminated. While in the beginning, she’d thought the timing to be the universe taking care of them, she was edging more toward darker thoughts these days—finding the timing almost cruel.

For everyone.

Winston’s car was already in the garage when she pulled in, ready for, if not a showdown, at least some kind of meaningful conversation.

And at the very least, to find out once and for all if her baby’s father would be accompanying her to the ultrasound five days hence.

Letting herself into the kitchen with a strong reminder to herself not to push, but to maybe gently lead a little, she was surprised by the stillness. No dinner cooking. Not even any lights on.

Setting her bag and keys down quietly, she slipped out of her heels and proceeded quietly into the rest of the house, looking for her husband.

Had he fallen asleep?

Or God forbid, just fallen? Hurt himself?

Rustling drew her down the hall and toward their office. Nearing the door, she could see that the light was on. Heard papers shuffling. And then, total silence.

She rounded the corner of the doorway, mouth open on its way to “hello” with perhaps a “how was your day?” attached, and she stopped. Winston was sitting in his chair, turned sideways at his desk, the bottom drawer open, a green hanging file folder sitting next to the stapler not far from his left biceps. Another folder, mostly empty, sat next to the green one.

She noticed because she recognized them—or rather, the markings on the manila one. It was the one in which he’d kept all of the cards she’d given him, notes she’d written that he’d saved for one reason or another, even a few ticket stubs.

Winston’s head was down, chin against his chest, his hands against his skull. Her gaze fell to the box between his feet. She recognized the card on top. She’d given it to him the night they were married, but had actually written the page glued inside the day she’d met him. At fourteen she’d just known.

He’d always been as into her as she was him. He’d brought up marriage at fifteen. Talking about their future as though it was a done deal and they’d always be together.

But it wasn’t until their wedding night, when he’d read her card, that he’d admitted to her that he’d known, too. That he’d told his mom, the day he’d met her, that he’d met the girl he was going to marry.

He wasn’t moving, just sitting there holding his head, that box at his feet.

Was his head hurting? Was he having some kind of breakdown? Or, dare she hope, a breakthrough?

“Winston?” She spoke softly, not sure how to handle the situation. What was best for him. But leaving him like that wasn’t an option.

He sat up instantly, his gaze clear, as sharp as always, the second he looked at her.

“Yeah?”

“Your head...is it hurting?” She glanced at the box again and then wished she hadn’t. It sat there, an unspeakable wall between them.

“No. I’m fine.”

He was not. He just wasn’t. And she couldn’t take another one of his empty platitudes. They were keeping them locked in a place that went nowhere. Ever.

Her card was in a box on top of a pile that she knew was everything else she’d given him that he’d kept. Except for maybe the one or two things still causing a slight bulge in the folder on his desk. Because he’d chosen to keep them?

And if so, what were they?

Or just because she’d interrupted before he’d completed his task?

The wedding night card was on top. He’d been holding his head.