“Not like that.”
My heart kept pounding anyway.
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
Theo reached into his chest pocket and pulled out an envelope.
It was wrinkled and smudged, like it had been opened and closed a hundred times. Tape held one corner together.
My handwriting was on the front.
One of the letters I’d mailed overseas and never knew he got.
Theo held it out with both hands, like he was handing me something fragile.
“He kept them,” Theo said quietly. “All of your letters.”
I took the envelope.
My fingers went numb.
I flipped it over and saw my son’s handwriting in the corner, messy and familiar.
READ EVERY NIGHT.
My breath left my body like someone punched it out.
“He wrote that,” I whispered.
Theo nodded. “Yeah.”
I stared at Theo. “Where is he?”
Theo didn’t answer right away.
His eyes flicked down the street like he expected someone to pull up.
Then he looked back at me and said, “You need to come with me.”
My whole body went cold.
“Is he alive?” I asked.
Theo’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Relief hit, then something worse.
“Is he hurt?” I asked.
Theo exhaled like it hurt. “There was an explosion.
He has a traumatic brain injury.”
I tasted metal in my mouth.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?” I snapped.
“They tried,” Theo said. “The number on file was wrong. The address was wrong.
Nobody fixed it. I didn’t know until I found the letters.”
I stared at the envelope like it was proof my life wasn’t a lie.
“And now?” I asked.
Theo’s voice dropped. “Now he keeps asking for you.
And he keeps not finding you.”
My eyes burned.
I didn’t ask where. I didn’t ask how far. I didn’t ask anything smart.
I said, “Take me to him.”
Theo blinked like he wasn’t used to people obeying that fast.
“It’s a few hours away.”
“I don’t care.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
I didn’t even grab a coat. I just ran inside, snatched my keys off the hook, grabbed my wallet from the counter, and ran back out.
Theo started moving toward his truck, and I realized my hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t unlock my own car if I tried.
“You drive,” I said.
Theo didn’t argue.
As we pulled away, I looked back through my front window.
The table was set.
One plate.
Waiting.
The highway was slick and gray.
Theo drove like he’d memorized every mile.
I kept the envelope in my lap like it was a heartbeat.
After 20 minutes, I forced words out.
“How long?” I asked.
Theo stared at the road. “Three months.”
I turned to him. “He’s been like this for three months and nobody told me.”
Theo’s mouth tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t fix anything,” I said, and then my voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“Yeah,” Theo said quietly.
“I know.”
We rode in silence for a while.
Finally I asked, “What was he like over there? Before it happened.”
Theo’s throat bobbed. “Stubborn,” he said.
“Funny. He’d act like he wasn’t scared, then he’d check on everybody else.”
That sounded like my boy.
Theo added, “He kept your letters in a zip bag inside his vest. Like he was carrying home with him.”
My eyes blurred.
At a gas station, Theo bought water and shoved it at me.
“Drink.”
I took a sip because my mouth felt like sand.
Theo leaned against the truck for a second, staring at the rain.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said.
Theo laughed once, sharp. “He saved my life,” he said. “So yeah.
I did.”
That shut me up.
When we reached the hospital, it wasn’t the bright, cheerful kind. It was gray and serious, with signs that made my stomach twist.
Theo signed us in. A nurse named Jenna looked up and said, “You’re Maren.”
I nodded, because my voice had left again.
Jenna’s face softened.
“He’s been asking,” she said. “A lot.”
Theo led me down a hallway and stopped at a door with a paper taped to it.
DO NOT STARTLE PATIENT.
My chest ached.
Theo pushed the door open slowly.
Gideon was in the bed, thinner than my brain wanted to accept. One side of his head was shaved near a healing scar.
His hand was clenched around an envelope.
Another one of my letters.
Like he couldn’t let go.
He looked up when we stepped in.
His eyes landed on Theo first, as if Theo was the anchor.
Then his eyes moved to me.
They didn’t brighten.
They searched.
His brow furrowed, like recognition was right there and he couldn’t grab it.
I stepped forward one careful step and stopped.
“Hi,” I said softly.
“It’s Mom.”
Gideon stared at my face like it hurt.
His grip tightened around the envelope.
Theo stayed near the door and said, gentle, “Gideon… this is her. This is Maren.”
Gideon’s mouth trembled. He made a sound that wasn’t a word.
Frustrated. Angry at himself.
“I… I don’t…” he rasped.
I held my hands out, palms up, and didn’t touch him.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to remember everything.
You just have to let me sit here.”
He blinked fast. Tears gathered and he looked furious about it.
Then he whispered, “Letters.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I’m here.
And I can read.”
Gideon’s eyes dropped to the envelope in his hand like it was the only thing he trusted.
He pushed it toward me, not letting go right away.
I slid my fingers under it. He released it on a shaky exhale.
I unfolded the paper.
My own handwriting stared back at me, and my throat closed.
“Do you want this one?” I asked.
Gideon nodded once.
So I read.
I read about the porch light being on.
I read about Denise asking about him.
I read about how I kept his room the same because changing it felt like giving up.
Halfway through, Gideon’s breathing changed. He stared at my mouth like he was trying to memorize the shape of my voice.
When I finished, he swallowed hard.
His lips moved like they were learning a word again.
“M… Mom?” he whispered.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t steady.
It was everything.
I didn’t make it a big moment. I didn’t demand more.
I just leaned in and wrapped my arms around him carefully, like he might shatter.
Gideon froze for a second.
Then his hand grabbed my sleeve, tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear.
He made a broken sound against my shoulder.
I cried into his hospital gown and didn’t apologize.
Behind me, the door clicked softly.
Theo stepped out and gave us space.
Recovery didn’t happen fast.
Some days Gideon remembered my name.
Some days he stared at me like I was almost familiar.
Some days he called me “ma’am,” and I went to the bathroom and shook until I could breathe again.
Theo kept showing up.
He brought Gideon protein bars and bad jokes.
He sat through paperwork with me when my brain turned to mush.
One night Gideon woke up shaking, whispering, “I can’t find it.”
I thought he meant his memory.
He meant the envelope.
I found it under his pillow and put it back in his hands.
He pressed it to his chest and exhaled like he’d been drowning.
“You want me to read?” I asked.
He nodded.
So I did.
And after I finished, he looked at me and said, clearer this time, “Don’t leave.”
I stared at him and said the truest thing I’d said in years.
Weeks later, the doctors talked about discharge plans. Home rehab.
Follow-ups. Slow steps.
Theo stood in the hallway while I signed papers, exhausted in a way I recognized.
“You can go home,” I told him. “You’ve done enough.”
Theo shook his head.
“Not until he’s home,” he said.
Gideon, from his wheelchair, glanced at him and muttered, “Theo.”
Theo’s face softened. “Yeah, buddy.”
The day before Gideon was set to come home, I went back to my house alone.
I stood in my kitchen and stared at my table.
One plate sat there, like it had for years.
I picked it up and put it away.
Then I set the table again.
Two plates.
Two forks.
Two glasses.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Theo: On my way with him in the morning. You ready?
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, then typed back.
I’ve been ready for three years.
I sat at the table and looked at those two plates.
For three years, I’d fed a ghost.
Now I was making room for my son—alive, bruised, and still mine.
And for the first time in a long time, the empty chair didn’t feel like a punishment.
It felt like a promise.
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