Chapter 9
Ethan
Ethan stepped through the front door, the quiet inside unnatural—too still, too heavy. He’d come home to silence before, but tonight was different.
Ranger wasn’t waiting at the door like usual. Instead, he heard him upstairs. His wagging tail hitting the hardwood outside Mom’s bedroom, he didn’t move from the door to greet him.
That alone told him everything.
Ethan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before stepping into the kitchen.
His dad sat at the table, hands clasped, head bowed.
The dim overhead light cast shadows on his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes even more pronounced. His shoulders were tense, his expression set—but Ethan saw it.
The raw pain.
The fear.
The tear tracks on his father’s weathered face.
Ethan’s stomach tightened, but he forced his voice to stay even, strong.
"How is she?"
His dad’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look up. “Weak.”
Ethan nodded once, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “She’ll get stronger.”
His dad let out a soft, bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
His dad finally met his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he looked truly lost.
“Believe.” His father’s voice was rough, torn at the edges. “How do you still believe when she’s suffering like this? When we can’t do a damn thing to help her?”
Ethan held his gaze steady. “Because if I stop believing, I’ll fall apart.”
His dad blinked, his jaw tightening. “I’m mad at God.”
Ethan nodded. “Good.”
His dad’s brows furrowed. “How is that good?”
Ethan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Because it means you still believe.”
His father scoffed, looking away.
“Dad.” Ethan’s voice was gentle, but firm. “God can take it. He can take your anger, your grief, your pain. He’s not afraid of it. He’s not turning away from you because you’re hurting.”
His dad was quiet, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
Ethan swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak what was in his heart. “You know, I’ve been mad at God before.” He let out a quiet laugh. “Hell, I’ve been mad at the church, too. Mad at people who use the bible as a weapon against others. God is who I trust, who I believe is there for me when I need him the most. He is my protector, my healer, my confidant, and my friend. My faith is strong because of you, Dad, because of the man you raised me to be. If you need my faith, there is plenty for me to share.”
His father glanced at him but didn’t speak.
Ethan pressed on. “It’s not easy. It’s messy. It’s full of doubt and fear and pain. But that doesn’t mean God isn’t there. He doesn’t leave just because we don’t understand his plan.”
His dad’s hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
Ethan’s throat tightened, but he kept going.
“I don’t know why Mom is going through this,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I don’t know why you got hurt or why things feel so damn impossible some days. But I know this—I know that God loves her. I know that He loves us. And I know that no matter how mad we get, no matter how lost we feel, He’s still here.”
His dad let out a shaky breath, rubbing his palms over his face. “It’s not fair, Ethan.”
Ethan nodded. “I know.”
His father’s voice broke. “I don’t want to lose her.”
Ethan felt his chest tighten, the weight of his own fear pressing down.
His dad had always been the strong one—the provider, the man who could fix anything with his hands and sheer determination.
But now?
Now, he was just a husband who was terrified of losing the love of his life.
Ethan’s hands curled into fists, then relaxed. He reached across the table, placing his hand over his father’s.
“You’re not alone, Dad,” Ethan said, voice thick. “We’re in this together.”
His father’s shoulders shook slightly, and for the first time in as long as Ethan could remember, his dad let himself cry.
He just sat there, his own eyes burning, holding onto the only thing that mattered—faith, family, and the hope that tomorrow would bring another chance to fight.
The house was still, except for the soft sounds of Ranger shifting near Mom’s door.
Ethan sat at the table long after his dad wiped his eyes and let out a deep, steady breath.
The kitchen was quiet, except for the slow, steady breaths of two men letting go of their tears. Ethan’s hands were still clasped around his father’s, a silent promise shared between them.
Then—the sound of movement upstairs.
Ranger’s nails clicked against the hardwood as he stood up abruptly, his body shifting toward the stairs.
Ethan and his father exchanged a glance.
“She’s up, she must have heard you come home” his dad murmured, wiping at his eyes quickly.
Ethan did the same, rolling his shoulders back before standing. “I’ll help her.”
He crossed the kitchen, moving toward the stairs just as his mom’s frail figure appeared at the top.
She was small, wrapped in a warm cardigan, her movements slow, delicate.
But the moment she saw him, she smiled.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, voice soft but full of warmth.
Ethan grinned, bounding up the stairs. “Hey, Ma.” He gently placed a hand on her elbow, supporting her without making it obvious. “You should’ve called. I’d have carried you down.”
She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, hush. I may be weak, but I’m not a porcelain doll.”
“Maybe not,” he teased, leading her down carefully, taking the steps slow. “But I am the only son of a very stubborn woman, which means I have to overcompensate for your bad decisions.”
She chuckled, patting his hand. “You’re lucky I like you.”
By the time they reached the living room, their dad had already fluffed the pillows on the couch, creating a cozy nest. Ranger trotted over, pressing his nose against her hand like he was checking on her himself.
She rubbed his ears fondly, smiling down at him. “See? Ranger agrees, I’m just fine.”
Ethan arched a brow at the dog. “Don’t encourage her.”
Ranger huffed, settled beside the couch.
Mom sighed contentedly as she sank into the cushions, eyes flicking between them. “Alright, my boys, what’s for dinner?”
Ethan and his dad exchanged a look.
Dad grinned. “How do you feel about grilled cheese and tomato soup?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, you do love me.”
Joseph smirked. “Maybe a little.”
She laughed, the sound light and full of life, and for the first time that day, Ethan felt some of the weight on his chest ease.
The kitchen came alive as Ethan and his dad moved around in sync, pulling out bread, cheese, and a can of tomato soup.
His dad manned the griddle, buttering the bread like it was an art form, while Ethan stirred the soup on the stove.
“This is how we impress women,” his dad said, flipping a sandwich. “Grilled cheese mastery.”
Ethan chuckled. “Good thing I’m already irresistible.”
His dad snorted. “Oh yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
Ethan smirked. “Mom loves me more than you.”
His dad pointed a spatula at him. “Cocky little thing.”
Ethan just grinned, savoring the moment.
The kitchen smelled like butter and crisping bread, the air warm, familiar, comforting.
When they plated everything and set up TV trays in the living room, his mom sighed dramatically.
“Oh, I love being waited on,” she teased, accepting her plate. “Cancer has its good points.”
Ethan shot her a look. “Not funny, Ma.”
She patted his hand. “Alright, alright. But seriously, boys—this looks amazing.”
His dad sat beside her, nudging her gently. “Only the best for our girl.”
Ethan settled in on the other side, watching as she took a bite, her face lighting up with happiness.
For the first time in a while, she looked like herself.
As they ate, Ethan’s mom grabbed the remote and pulled up an episode of The Great British Bake Off.
Paul Hollywood’s voice filled the room, critiquing some poor contestant’s underbaked sponge.
Ethan smirked. “Ah, yes. The real reason we watch.”
His mom grinned, leaning onto the couch. “That man could steal me away if I weren’t married.”
Ethan grinned and yelled out, “I’m single!”
His dad rolled his eyes dramatically at his wife. “And yet, here I am. Forgotten. Ethan, he doesn’t deserve you.”
His mom patted his knee. “You’re a very close second.”
Ethan laughed, taking another bite of his sandwich.
His dad shook his head but chuckled, and for a moment—just a moment, things felt normal.
The weight wasn’t gone, but it was lighter.
Ethan glanced at his dad, who was watching his wife with so much love it almost hurt to see.
His dad caught Ethan’s gaze, and they shared a silent understanding.
We’re in this together.
Ethan turned back to the TV, his mom smiling at the screen, her laughter soft but real.
And at that moment, hope was enough.
He looked at his parents, “I need to go out and give a bid tonight, Mr. Jensen really liked the shelves I built and has more work for me. Mind watching Ranger for me?”
His parents looked at each other, then looked at Ethan. Dad reached out and touched his arm, “We’re sorry you have to do so much for us, Ethan. You deserve a life of your own where you can go out and meet your own Paul Hollywood. Not a life where you have to work two jobs to take care of us.”
“Stop it, both of you. You know we are in this together, right? My Paul Hollywood or Emily Blunt is out there somewhere for me, for now, it’s just us against the world. I love you both so much.” He reaches in and hugs his parents.
Ethan stepped inside, immediately struck by the shift in the air. Mark’s home had always felt grand, but now, walking through it with the man himself—it felt more than that.
It felt lived in. Loved. And… unfinished.
Mark cleared his throat, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Figured it’s about time you saw more than just the living room.”
Ethan smirked. “So, the mysterious Mr. Jensen is finally letting me into his lair?”
Mark rolled his eyes, already moving toward the hallway. “Come on.”
Ethan followed, his boots quiet against the dark hardwood floors.
Mark stopped outside two closed doors.
Ethan raised a brow. “This is dramatic.”
Mark didn’t respond. Instead, he pushed the doors open—
And Ethan lost his words.
The room was like stepping into a museum. The walls were rich in texture, like something pulled straight from Greece, and the ceiling was a masterpiece, painted with hues of a sunset that made the entire space feel alive.
In the far corners, inset into the walls, stood two statues—David on the left, Venus on the right.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
“Wow.”
Mark stared at the room, his face unreadable. “Jessica wanted a reminder of our honeymoon in Florence. She designed this herself.”
Ethan took it all in, moving slowly, running a hand over the smooth, carved detail of the wall.
“She was an artist,” Ethan murmured.
Mark’s voice was quiet. “She was.”
Ethan turned to him, catching the way Mark’s jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
Ethan hesitated, then, with careful respect, he nodded toward the ceiling. “She captured the feeling, y’know? The warmth. It’s not just a room. It’s an experience.”
Mark’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “That’s what she wanted.”
Ethan nodded. “She got it right.”
Mark’s throat bobbed, and after a beat, he jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Come on. There’s more.”
Ethan followed, but not before giving one last glance at the room.
Mark pushed open the next door, revealing a space as opposite from the dining room as it could get.
The master bedroom was large, masculine, structured—the deep, warm tones of leather furniture filling the space. Dark wood lined the walls, and the king-sized bed looked more like a fortress than a place to sleep.
But Ethan wasn’t looking at the bed.
He was looking at the closet.
Mark hadn’t closed the doors all the way, and inside, hanging neatly, untouched—were Jessica’s clothes.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
Mark cleared his throat, walking toward the dresser. “Still need to fix the closet door. It sticks.”
Ethan didn’t mention the clothes.
Instead, he stepped inside and ran a hand along the polished dresser, admiring the quality of the craftsmanship.
“This room is you,” Ethan said.
Mark looked over. “Yeah?”
Ethan nodded. “Solid. Classic. Well put together.” His lips twitched. “Bet you don’t even wrinkle your sheets.”
Mark smirked. “I don’t.”
Ethan grinned, then glanced at the unfinished light fixture hanging loose in the corner. “Want me to add that to the list?”
Mark exhaled. “Yeah.”
Ethan pulled out his notepad, jotting it down.
Mark didn’t say anything.
Ethan didn’t push.
The next room was precisely what Ethan expected.
Dark wood. Rich leather chairs. Stacks of law books organized with military precision.
The large desk was meticulously kept, every file in its proper place, the surface spotless.
Ethan smirked. “This is where you plot world domination, huh?”
Mark huffed a laugh, walking to the bookshelf. “Something like that.”
Ethan scanned the titles. “You actually read all of these?”
Mark raised a brow. “That surprises you?”
Ethan shrugged. “Not really. But still.” He tapped a thick volume. “Wouldn’t kill you to have a fun book in here.”
Mark smirked. “Work is fun.”
Ethan sighed. “You need help.”
Mark chuckled, then gestured toward the next door. “Come on. One more.”
The moment Ethan stepped inside, he stopped.
Because this wasn’t just an office.
It was art.
Unlike the rest of the house, Jessica’s presence wasn’t just felt—it was everywhere.
The walls were painted in soft, warm tones, but splashed with sketches and concept designs.
Jessica’s work.
Ethan stepped closer, eyes tracking the delicate lines of an unfinished piece pinned to a corkboard.
She had been incredibly talented.
Mark watched him, his expression carefully unreadable.
“She designed everything in this house,” Mark said, voice quiet. “Every detail.”
Ethan nodded. “You can feel it.”
Mark’s eyes flickered. “Feel what?”
Ethan ran his fingers over a sketch of a feminine, floral-themed sitting room.
“The love,” Ethan murmured. “It’s all here.”
Mark swallowed hard.
Then—before Ethan could say anything else—he gestured toward the corner. “The cabinet there. Needs hinges.”
Ethan exhaled, flipping open his notepad. “got it.”
As they returned to the living room, Mark sat on the edge of the couch, looking over at the now-finished built-ins.
Ethan hesitated, then asked, “Why did she leave things unfinished?”
Mark’s lips pressed together, his eyes far away. “She didn’t. She worked on things herself. When she got sick…” He gestured vaguely. “She just… stopped. It’s been four years. And now…you.”
Ethan nodded slowly, then lifted his notepad and looked up into Mark’s dull green eyes. “Then let’s finish it.”
Mark stood there, studying him.
Ethan held his gaze, unwavering.
After a long moment, Mark exhaled. “Yeah. Let’s finish it.”