22. Robert
twenty-two
Robert
I brought my daughter to the food bank luncheon before I went in for the special pre-Thanksgiving Day self-defense class dinner.
It was more important than ever around the holidays to make sure that the women who attended my classes had a sense of community around them. Holidays could be hell for victims of domestic violence. I made sure they had a place to go to safely, a place that they could escape to and ask for help and resources. Or just a place to remind them about the strength they had within.
The noise in the food bank’s main hall was as familiar as it was humbling. Forks clattered on plates, bursts of laughter rang out, and the warm scent of roasted turkey filled the air. The tables, lined with families and individuals, glowed with orange and gold centerpieces.
“Dad, what should we do next?” Corinne asked, tugging on my sleeve. She was holding the handle of the wagon that held all of our pastries, her face glowing with the excitement of being part of something important.
“Let’s drop these off first,” I said, gesturing toward the dessert station. “Then we’ll see if they need help at the drink table.”
Her eyes darted down toward the desserts she had in tow. “Do you think we’ll get to eat some later?”
“Only if you earn it,” I teased, nudging her shoulder with my hand to get her to move toward the dessert table.
She grinned at me as she hurried toward it, the creaky wheel loudly alerting everyone of her presence.
Being here felt right. Every year, I made sure we spent time giving back, especially during the holidays. But standing in this room—surrounded by people who were struggling while I had everything I could ever need—always left a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t enough to just show up and volunteer.
The guilt lingered, heavy and constant, reminding me how unfair life could be. Most of these people were veterans, just like me, but somehow, it had ended in homelessness for them while I was more than comfortable.
“Wow, these look amazing,” one of the volunteers, wearing a nametag that said Charlie, said, as Corinne started to lift the pastries up out of the wagon and set them on the tabletop.
“She made them herself,” I said, glancing down at her and winking. She hid a laugh behind her hand as she continued to set them out.
Charlie smiled. “You must be an amazing baker!”
Corinne beamed, and I let her soak up the praise, even if it was undeserved. She had picked them out herself. It was basically the same in my book.
After dropping off the desserts, we moved to the drink table. Corinne jumped right in, pouring cups of water and juice with a focus and enthusiasm that made me smile. I stood beside her, making small talk with the guests as I refilled trays and tidied the area.
“Your daughter’s a hard worker,” an older man said, as I handed him a cup of water.
“She sure is,” I replied, my chest swelling with pride.
For a while, the steady rhythm of volunteering kept my thoughts at bay. But as the lunch rush slowed and I stepped back to catch my breath, the familiar guilt crept in.
I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a group of veterans sitting together at one of the tables. Their laughter was loud, their camaraderie evident, but I couldn’t miss the weariness in their faces. It was the kind of weariness that came from carrying too much for too long. I heard one of them say, “Yeah, people don’t care about us anymore. This is my first hot meal in days. Even the shelter costs $7 a day now.”
The others murmured their agreement, and one said, “It’s a damn shame. All that we did for their freedoms, and they see us as dirt.”
My stomach twisted. They reminded me of the men I’d served with, some of whom I’d lost.
I wondered how many of them had struggled to find steady ground after coming home. How many of them were still fighting battles I couldn’t begin to imagine. How many of them couldn’t find hot meals or places to lay their heads.
And then there was me. A billionaire. A man whose life had somehow turned out better than he ever thought possible—better than it probably should have.
I’d left the Navy the same as them, with a sense of precarity, my life turned upside down and my hands still sweating whenever someone moved too quickly near me, and yet here I was, running a company, raising a daughter, volunteering at food banks in my spare time. This was their meal.
It didn’t feel fair.
The room suddenly felt too loud, the laughter too sharp. My heart raced, and I struggled to draw a full breath.
“Dad?” Corinne’s voice sounded distant, though she was standing right in front of me.
“I’m... I’m fine,” I managed, although the words felt far from true. “I just need a minute.”
I turned and hurried toward the door, the edges of my vision closing in. My chest tightened further as I stumbled into the cold November air, leaning against the railing for support.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The memories hit hard, as they always did. The sound of gunfire, the acrid stench of smoke, the desperate shouts of men I couldn’t save.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the railing as though it could anchor me to the present.
“Robert.” The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the haze.
I opened my eyes to see Charlie, one of the event organizers, standing a few feet away. His shoulders were raised slightly, his posture non-threatening. He held a steaming cup of coffee.
He was an older man, his face lined with years of hard work, but his eyes were sharp. “Are you in a place for this, or am I gonna get it thrown back in my face?”
I wanted to laugh, but on some of my worse PTSD trips, I might have done just that. I could be animalistic in those moments, protective of myself from everyone and everything.
Delia’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden. The way her smile had faded when I’d told her to leave that night. The way her voice had wavered, hurt and confused when she asked why. I’d done it to protect her, I told myself. To protect her from me.
But that didn’t make it right.
“Hey,” Charlie said softly. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
I nodded but couldn’t find the words to respond.
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “Mind if I stay with you?”
I shook my head, and he leaned against the railing next to me, sipping his own coffee. “It’s good, what you’re doing here. Bringing your daughter, making this a tradition.”
“It’s important,” I managed to say.
“It is,” he agreed. “But I get the sense it’s about more than that for you.”
I didn’t answer right away, my eyes fixed on the steam rising from my cup.
For a while, neither of us spoke. I focused on my breathing, matching it to the steady rhythm of Charlie’s voice as he murmured quiet reassurances.
“You’ve been through this before,” he said eventually. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” I croaked, my throat dry.
Charlie nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re a vet, aren’t you?”
“Navy SEAL,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“Figured as much,” he said. “I was in the Army. ’Nam.”
“Thanks for your service,” I said automatically.
“Same to you.”
We sat in silence for a moment before Charlie spoke again. “It’s hard. The holidays. It’s nice what you’re doing, showing up here, but it’s hard.”
“You’re doing it, too.”
“I am. That’s how I know it’s hard.”
I didn’t say anything in response, just scoffed and looked back out beyond the railing.
Charlie continued, “You know, you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Letting people in doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t understand, but the words wouldn’t come. His words hit harder than I wanted to admit. “It’s just not fair. Why did I make it out and they didn’t? Sometimes it feels like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough,” I admitted. “I see these guys in there, veterans who gave everything, and I can’t help feeling like... I got off easy.”
Charlie nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Survivor’s guilt,” he said quietly.
The words hit like a punch to the gut, but I didn’t deny them.
“I’ve been there,” he continued, his expression kind but firm. “Vietnam was hell, and coming back wasn’t any easier. It took me years to realize I didn’t have to carry it all alone.”
I glanced at him, my jaw tightening. I swallowed hard, staring at the ground. “I don’t know how.”
“You start small,” he said. “One step at a time.”
Before I could respond, the door opened, and Corinne stepped outside. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her eyes wide with concern.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
I forced a smile, though it didn’t feel convincing. “I’m fine, pumpkin. Just needed some air.”
She frowned but didn’t argue.
“Go ahead and grab us some pie,” I added. “I’ll catch up.”
She hesitated, glancing between me and Charlie, before nodding and heading back inside.
Charlie clapped me on the shoulder. “You did good with her. She deserves a healthy dad. You think about what I said.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if I could.
When I stepped back into the hall a few minutes later, Corinne was waiting for me with two slices of pie. Her smile was bright, and for a moment, the weight on my chest lifted.
“Here,” she said, handing me a plate. “You need it more than I do.”
I chuckled softly, ruffling her hair. “Thanks, sweetie.”
As we sat together, eating our pie in companionable silence, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.
Maybe Charlie was right.
Maybe it was time to stop carrying it all alone.