24. Ethan
24
Ethan
T he safe door creaked open, and Ethan’s gaze locked on the dim interior. His hands shook as he reached in, the cool metal brushing his fingertips before he pulled out the contents.
Please, let it be here.
Hero shifted beside him, as if sensing the change in the air. His tail thumped on the floor, but he remained quiet, his eyes steady on Ethan, as if he too were waiting.
A bright yellow envelope, crisp and official, stood out among the clutter.
Could this really be it?
Ethan’s pulse quickened as he carefully pulled it free. For a split second, he froze, staring at it, as his thumb traced along its edges. His heart pounded, and with a surge of urgency, he ripped the envelope open. His hands were jittery as he unfolded the paper.
The deed.
After all the searching, it was finally in his hands.
“Hero!”
Ethan waved the deed, and Hero barked. Laughing, he leaned down as Hero jumped, licking his face.
He rubbed Hero’s head with both hands. “We did it, boy!”
Hero barked again, prancing in a joyful circle, as if celebrating too.
Still grinning, Ethan stood and set the deed carefully on the dresser, as though placing it down made it all real. He exhaled, his body finally relaxing.
But as his eyes drifted back to the open safe, something else drew his attention—a bundle of letters, neatly tied with a faded ribbon. Intrigued, Ethan lifted it, his forehead creasing as he noticed the bold, scarlet Return to Sender stamp on each envelope.
A heaviness sank into his chest as he examined them, each one addressed to a different army base. As he unsealed nearly twenty letters, his eyes skimmed the pages, and certain phrases jumped out.
I’m sorry for everything ...
Please come home ...
I’d do anything to hear your voice again ...
Each line was like a dagger to Ethan’s heart.
The realization struck him hard, knocking the air from his lungs: These were his dad’s attempts at reaching out over the years. He shuffled through the letters until he reached the last one—its edges worn, as if handled many times, but never opened. As he unfolded it, a picture slipped from between the pages, floating to the floor. Ethan bent down and picked it up.
It was a photo of his dad, looking surprisingly clean-shaven and put together, standing beside a dog. Wrigley , his dad had scrawled on the back. The dog had a scruffy brown coat, and his dad’s hand rested gently on the dog’s head, both of them looking into the camera with an air of quiet companionship.
His chest tightened as he stared at the picture, holding it a moment longer before setting it down. Then he unfolded the letter, and the words blurred for a moment before coming into focus.
Dear Ethan,
Saw your picture in the paper. My boy, a war hero. I’m proud of you, even though I bet you hate me. Can’t say I blame you for that. Most days, I can’t stand myself either.
I know I messed up bad as your father. If I could do it over, I’d do a lot of things different. I’ve got more regrets than I know what to do with. But there’s some things you can’t fix. I can’t take back what happened to Sarah Walker, or the choices I made that night.
Losing my job that day knocked me down hard. After that, I went straight to the bar then passed out in the truck. The nightmares from Vietnam started up again. I was drunk, scared, and too selfish to think straight. Got behind the wheel, thinking I could end my own pain. Instead, I took Sarah’s life.
There ain’t no excuse for what I did. I’ve been carrying that weight ever since, and I’ll carry it to the grave.
But there’s one thing I gotta tell you. Sarah’s daughter, Kara, came to visit me in prison a few times after you left. Every time she’d ask if I’d heard from you, if I knew where you were. And one day, she told me she forgave me for what I did to her family. She even prayed with me, and said she hopes one day I’ll forgive myself. Maybe God will too. I hope so.
If this letter finds you, son, Kara wanted me to tell you that she still loves you. She always has. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, but she’s a good woman.
I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Ethan. I reckon I’ve lost that chance, but I just wanted to tell you one last thing: I love you, son. I always did, even when I didn’t know how to show it.
Maybe I’ll see you again someday.
Love,
Dad
P.S. This is a picture of me and Wrigley. Don’t know what kind of dog he was, but I know you would’ve liked him.
Ethan’s vision clouded as the words twisted into one painful truth: He’d never get the chance to answer his dad.
The letter fell from his grip, drifting to the floor, a weight too heavy for him to hold any longer. His knees buckled beneath him—he sank to the ground—he pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the flood—but the tears came faster, unstoppable. Sobs wracked his body—raw, guttural, coming from a place he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
He hadn’t known how much his father had struggled, or how much he’d longed for forgiveness. And now ... It’s too late and it’s all my fault. The finality of it stole the breath from his lungs, leaving emptiness in its wake.
Save for his thoughts, his father’s words echoed in his mind. The apology. The love. The years of silence and missed chances crushed him, and for the first time, he let it all in. Hugging his arms to his chest, he rocked slightly, as if he could somehow hold himself together while everything inside him fell apart.
Hero came over to Ethan’s side, nudging his arms open and curling into his lap. Ethan took a shaky breath and stroked the dog’s fur, slowing his racing heart until the sobs faded away. He buried his face into Hero’s soft coat, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. At times like this, all he had left was the steady rhythm of Hero’s heartbeat to remind him to keep breathing—and he was grateful for his best friend.
Ethan pushed himself off the floor, his hands trembling as he leaned on the dresser for support. His body felt heavy, like he was wading through thick mud. Wiping his eyes, he looked down at Hero, who watched him in quiet understanding. “I’ll be right back, boy,” Ethan muttered.
Hero didn’t stay behind. He rose and followed closely as Ethan stumbled to the kitchen.
Ethan’s pill bottle was on the counter, right where he had left it. The last pill rattled inside as he unscrewed the cap. His shaky hands trembled as he pulled it out and moved to the sink to grab a glass of water, but just as he reached for the faucet, the pill slipped from his fingers.
Time seemed to slow as he watched it fall, tumbling into the drain before he could react.
“No! No, no!” Ethan frantically reached for the drain, tried to fit his hand into the narrow opening ... but it was no use. He rested his forehead on the cool edge of the counter.
The last pill, gone.
His mind raced as he pulled out his phone.
It was late, and he knew it wasn’t the best time to call Dr. Hartman, but this was an emergency. He sighed and was about to make the call when a new message flashed across the screen. It had been sent earlier that morning.
How’d I miss that?
He opened it and read:
Dr. Hartman: Hi Ethan,
I wanted to apologize for the confusion with your prescription. I was out of town and my assistant accidentally called it in to Walker’s Pharmacy instead of one of the other ones you preferred. By the time I realized, it was already processed. I understand how hard this might be for you, and I completely understand if you’re uncomfortable going there. If you want, I can resend it to a different pharmacy—just let me know where. I’m here to help. Again, I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. Hope to hear from you soon.
“Walker’s, of all places.” Ethan groaned, running a hand through his hair.
His heart sank at the thought of going back there—of facing Whitaker. But maybe Whitaker wouldn’t be working this late. At his age, he was probably done with night shifts, right?
Ethan stared at the message. He could have the prescription sent somewhere else, but that would take time—and he needed it now.
“Looks like we’re going out, boy,” Ethan muttered, reaching for Hero’s leash and clipping it to his collar.
His mind wrestled with the decision as he grabbed his keys.
Just a quick stop , he told himself. In and out. Then he’d be done with it.