And I didn’t listen. I told him I was fine. That I was where I needed to be. That I didn’t want to come back.
That was a lie, but I was young, stupid, and prideful.
God, we fought. Every fucking phone call turned into a standoff. Words that used to mean something came out ugly and bitter. Until eventually... there were no words at all.
By the time I came back that last Christmas, I’d convinced myself the bronze star in my pocket meant something. That saving those kids overseas made all the pain back home worth it. That maybe, just maybe, he’d finally see me as more than a disappointment.
But he just looked at me like I was a stranger. Said he didn’t even recognize me.
He was right.
I was proud of what I’d done. Of surviving. Of saving lives. But he saw it for what it really was—just another way I kept running farther from home.
We fought in person that time. Voices raised, years of pain pouring out like gasoline. And I walked away. Stormed out like a coward. Didn’t call. Didn’t write.
The next time I heard his name... it was from my mom a month later. A heart attack. Out in the field, trying to move a busted trailer full of wildflower crates I was supposed to help with that Christmas. He died doing the work I left behind. Died thinking I hated him.
And still, he finished this fucking house. Still gave me this last piece of him.
I press my palm to the front door, breathing hard. My knees threaten to give out, but I hold on. Ihaveto hold on.
Because this isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about a little girl who deserves roots, and safety, and love. And after all the time I spent with her this last week, I know one thing for damn sure. I can give her that. I don’t have much, but I can love Aurora like she’s my own kid.
Purpose pushes me forward. This part was hard as hell, damn near broke me, but I’m not done yet.
I quickly lock up the house and shoot a text to the new social worker to let her know I’ve found a place. She responds that she’ll be out Tuesday for a preliminary inspection. The thought makes me wanna puke, but I confirm and pocket my phone, taking the stairs two at a time.
Thank fuck the guys are here. I’ll need all the help I can get if I’m going to pull this off in two weeks.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I cut across the pasture toward the Big House, taking in Honey Bea and all the changes I’ve missed.
Last time I was really here was after I was discharged. Spent eight weeks holed up in my old room, recovering from multiple surgeries after the IED explosion. Shrapnel tore through my left shoulder, and the explosion broke my right femur. Left me with a chest full of scars and a limp I still feel more often than not.
Got out of here as quickly as I could. Moved to Wildwood and rarely looked back—except for on holidays. But those are ina dimly lit dining or living room, and I’ve always been buzzed enough to ignore the ache.
Now, I’m realizing how fucking selfish I’ve been.
The trek from my house to the one where I grew up is about half a mile, but it’s a pretty walk. Five thousand acres, passed down from my grandfather. Five thousand more bought when my dad married my mom. Ten thousand acres of blood, sweat, and sunburns.
It’s too much for one family and somehow still not enough for Archer dreams.
The wheat fields we use to supplement income when the flowers can’t bloom, the acres that stretch long and golden in summer heat—those were Grandpa’s idea. The working livestock, tractors, long days and weather-worn hands, that was my dad’s dream. To work the land, build something solid, something that couldn’t be taken away.
The wildflowers, though? The beehives? The bursts of color that flow like water across the hills in late spring?
Those were hers.
A honey bee farm. A wraparound porch. A house full of laughter and flowers. That was my mom’s dream.
So they built it together.
When we were old enough, she taught us everything she knew. They grew when they could, scaled back when they had to. And somehow, it worked.
For a long time, they made it work.
Until it didn’t.
Until we lost him.
