Chapter 16 - Nate
sixteen
nate
The house felt unnaturally quiet after the chaos of the Williams family reunion. I stood in the kitchen, mechanically washing the few dishes we'd accumulated, while the events of the day replayed in my mind like a highlight reel.
Paige had lasted exactly thirty seconds in the car before succumbing to what could only be described as fun exhaustion.
One moment she was chattering about the trampoline and her new friend Ayla, the next she was out cold, head lolled back against her car seat, mouth slightly open.
I'd carried her into the house like a sack of potatoes, her arms dangling limply as I navigated the front door.
She hadn't even stirred when I tucked her into bed, still wearing her purple reunion dress.
When was the last time I'd seen her that happy? That... free?
I dried my hands and moved to the living room, settling into my usual spot on the couch. The silence should have been peaceful, but instead it felt loaded with the weight of everything that had happened today. Everything that was changing.
Carl Williams clapping me on the shoulder, his weathered face split by an enormous grin.
"A ‘Devil Doc’, huh? Well, I'll be damned.
You boys saved more Marine asses than we could count.
" The unexpected acceptance from Tasha's stepfather, a man who'd seen his own share of combat, had caught me completely off guard.
When he'd started defending my nursing career to anyone within earshot—"This man saved Marines in Fallujah, show some damn respect"—I'd felt something loosen in my chest that I hadn't even realized was tight.
Then there was Thomas Williams, Tasha's father, with his pointed questions about my career choices and his obvious disappointment that I hadn't "aimed higher.
" The condescension in his voice when he'd said the word "nurse" had been unmistakable.
But Tasha had been watching, and when I'd delivered that old military line about working for a living, her eyes had lit up like Christmas morning.
The kiss she'd given me afterward—spontaneous, warm, proud—had been worth every awkward moment with her father. "You absolute menace," she'd called me, and I'd found myself grinning like an idiot.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, a strange restlessness settling over me. Today had been... good. Better than good. Paige had been welcomed into a huge, chaotic, loving family. I'd been accepted, even defended.
So why did I feel like I was standing on the edge of a cliff?
The answer came with unwelcome clarity: because I'd let them in.
Both of them. Tasha and her entire extended family.
I'd let Paige experience what it felt like to be part of something bigger than our carefully constructed world of two.
And more terrifying than that… I'd let myself experience it too.
Letting people in meant they could leave.
And if Tasha left—when she inevitably realized that a forty-year-old single father with PTSD and a mortgage wasn't worth the complications—she wouldn't just be leaving me.
She'd be leaving Paige. And Paige had already been abandoned once by someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally.
My mind drifted, unbidden, to another time.
A gas station. Paige barely four months old, Sarah gone for three weeks, and me driving home from Paige’s babysitter on fumes because I'd miscalculated the sudden new distance between paydays.
My card had been declined at the pump, my checking account showing a balance of $0.
47, and I'd found myself searching the car for loose change like some kind of desperate scavenger.
I'd come up with $1.82 in sticky quarters, grimy dimes, and lint-covered pennies scraped from under the seats and dashboard. Enough to get us home. Barely.
The gas station attendant—a kid barely out of high school—had looked at my handful of change like I'd offered him something diseased.
"Eww," he'd said, actually recoiling as I counted it out on the counter.
I'd been carrying Paige in her car seat, her tiny face peaceful in sleep, completely unaware that her father was counting pocket change to get them home.
I'd wanted to explain. To tell this kid that I was a veteran, that I was in school, that this was temporary. But pride had kept my mouth shut, and I'd simply waited while he reluctantly accepted my money, his expression making it clear what he thought of me.
That night, I'd sat in this same position, Paige finally asleep in her crib, and made myself a promise. Never again. Never would I let us get that close to the edge. Never would I risk the stability I was building for her, not for anyone or anything.
I'd kept that promise for eleven years. Built walls. Maintained distance. Kept our world small and safe and predictable.
And now here I was, having spent the day watching my daughter bloom in the chaos of someone else's family, seeing her experience joy I couldn't provide on my own. Watching Tasha navigate between her world and ours with an ease that should have terrified me.
The strangest part was that it didn't.
I waited for the familiar anxiety to kick in. The voice that usually started cataloging all the ways this could go wrong, all the reasons I should pull back, protect what we had. But it didn't come. Instead, I felt... calm. Settled in a way I hadn't experienced in years.
Tasha had been texting with Paige regularly since the period emergency.
Not just crisis management, but genuine conversation about books and school and silly things that made Paige laugh.
She'd helped my daughter through one of the most potentially traumatic experiences of growing up, and she'd done it with such grace and humor that Paige had actually enjoyed it.
Today, watching her with my family—because that's what the Williams clan had felt like, family—I'd seen something else.
The way she'd automatically cut Paige's food into smaller pieces.
How she'd reminded her to drink water when she was running around.
The steel in Tasha's eyes when Deanna had tried to make Paige feel bad about the trampoline incident.
The way she'd stepped between them without hesitation, her voice calm but absolutely unyielding.
"I'm sure it was an accident." Not just defending Paige, but doing it with such natural authority that even Deanna had backed down.
That wasn't the behavior of someone who was planning to disappear.
Tasha Williams was already part of our life. Not hovering at the edges, waiting for permission to enter, but fully integrated into the fabric of our daily existence. And somehow, without my noticing, I'd stopped being afraid of that.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the photos from today. Paige on the trampoline, arms spread wide, pure joy on her face. Tasha laughing at something Grandma Rose had said. The three of us together in front of the house, Paige between us, all of us smiling like we belonged there.
We looked like a family.
Before I could second-guess myself, I opened my email and started typing.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Davis,
I hope this email finds you well. I wanted to share some photos from a family gathering we attended this weekend. As you can see, Paige had a wonderful time and made some new friends.
I also wanted you to know that I've been seeing someone—Tasha Williams. She's a nurse at the hospital where I work, and she's been a wonderful, positive presence for Paige as she's navigating these big growing-up years. She's been very good to both of us.
As always, I'll continue to keep you updated on Paige's life and activities. Please know that you're welcome to reach out anytime if you'd like to talk or if you have any questions. I know how much you love Paige, and I want you to know she's happy and thriving.
Best regards,
Nathan Crawford
I attached the best photos from the day—Paige's radiant smile, the three of us together—and hit send before I could overthink it.
It was the right thing to do. Sarah's parents deserved to know that their granddaughter was happy, that there was someone new in her life who cared about her. And if I was being honest with myself, I wanted them to see what I'd found. What we'd found.
For the first time in eleven years, I wasn't afraid of tomorrow. I wasn't calculating risks or preparing for disaster. I was simply... hopeful.
Leaning back against the couch, I closed my eyes and let myself imagine what that might feel like long-term. What it might mean to stop living in survival mode and start living in possibility.
The thought should have terrified me.
But it didn’t.
I set the phone aside and walked quietly down the hallway. Paige was still out cold, her hair fanned across the pillow, one arm curled around her stuffed axolotl. I leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered the same thing I had a thousand times.
"We're okay, baby girl."
But this time… I was really starting to believe it.